


Lightning Strikes Twice

by Soroka



Series: World Enough and Time [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Hurt Thor (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Seizures, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Tony Stark & Thor Friendship, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Worried Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22721800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soroka/pseuds/Soroka
Summary: After Thanos snaps his fingers in Wakanda, the Avengers drift apart. When Thor and Tony's paths cross again three years later, friendships are reforged, mistakes are confronted and impossible odds may warrant some serious re-examination.Or how Thor's clairvoyance is still a heartless mistress, Tony faces a difficult decision and Bruce continues to be roped into questionable plans.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie & Thor (Marvel), Tony Stark & Thor
Series: World Enough and Time [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632553
Comments: 87
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, I'm writing about Tony and Thor again. Somebody take these two away from me before I cause them more pain than Endgame did. I promise to be better about it though.

They call it the Blip.

It is unclear when the term became official. The only thing chronicled with absolute accuracy is the relentless mocking of the American press for picking the stupidest name possible for the worst tragedy to befall the planet. There had been many of them floating around during those first chaotic months when nations were still counting their losses and trying desperately to take a functional census. The British called it the Halving. Australians went with the Vanishing. Several European countries simultaneously coined a name that loosely translated to “the end of days”. China and Japan spoke of the Great Loss, a name that also found its way to Russia and Southeast Asia.

Tony calls it the Avengers’ greatest failure. The exact words are not his own. They arrive on the lips of a pale-faced news anchor staring down at him from a buzzing television screen in the Compound’s infirmary. He takes them in with the numb acceptance of an inmate on death row as he watches the team discuss strategies on the other side of the transparent wall. Every once in a while, their eyes, dulled with shock, chance quick glances at him, as if evaluating if he is capable of assimilating what they have learned at the Garden.

Their concern is wasted. Pepper has already told him everything, choking back a sob every few words. And he had listened, her cold hand clasped between his, as he held onto her presence like a lifeline and did his best to ignore his own shameful gratitude.

When he is strong enough to walk unassisted, he leaves the Compound never to return.

His resignation as CEO of Stark Enterprises follows soon, two days before Rhodey takes over the mantle of Iron Man. Pepper becomes the sole owner of the company as he disappears from the public eye into a void of empty days and nights that drag on for too long. On good ones, he feels like he is reeling from a concussion, adrift in a sea of confusion and apathy. On bad ones, his brain is constantly playing catch-up to perform the most basic tasks like getting up in the morning. On really bad ones, he feels like he is walking through a computer simulation, staring through the hollow eyes of a drone as it goes through the motions of another cycle, not because it wants to, but because nobody has turned it off.

The feeling is not entirely new. It brings back memories of another life when he had just returned from Afganistan and everything felt just a tiny bit unreal. Except back then, he had drunk in every moment, afraid that he would run out of them. His blood was liquid fire in his veins, food did not taste like dry ashes, and he still believed that his survival had some kind of purpose.

All of that was gone now. He had been left alive in a dying world with the dubious privilege of watching it burn out.

Days blur together into weeks, weeks into months. He watches the Stark Relief Foundation struggle with the weight of a catastrophe they were never prepared to handle and wonders if there's anyone in the universe who is. Stark Enterprises diverts every resource their way, hires every engineer with a pulse to keep the wheels spinning but it is not enough. Even with the Iron Legion compensating for those lost to the Infinity Gauntlet, they can’t keep food in warehouses from rotting. Life-saving drugs are left in labs with no one to distribute them. Water-filtering plants across the globe are racing at breakneck speed to become fully automated. It is still not enough. Nothing will ever be.

He thinks of Steve's voice on the radio, encouraging people to join his support group and recognizes the deceptive reassurance in it that barely hides a crumbling facade. It comes through even clearer when he asks Tony to do the same. It is the first conversation they have in a long time and what was gearing up to be a five-minute courtesy call ends up lasting two hours that only tentatively begins to repair broken bridges. It wraps up with a firm promise to send willing Blip survivors Steve's way.

Tony can't bring himself to join them. He is what the media calls uniquely blessed. Pepper has survived the Blip unscathed. So have James Rhodes and Happy. And still, the sickly reddish light of Titan burns in his dreams as Mantis's sleep mantra grows more desperate. Still, Peter's terrified eyes stare at him from a quickly disintegrating face. And still, guilt eats away at his sanity when he turns on the news and feels just as powerless as when he was fighting off the infection on the Benatar, wondering if it should claim him before dehydration set in.

Steve tells everyone to move on. He tells them to find a bright side, something to hold on to. Nothing about their two-hour conversation suggests that he has. Tony knows him too well and he can't stand the thought of sitting in a room with motivational posters on the walls and hearing him lie to broken people about a better future even he cannot imagine. He feels like lying back to him even less.

He can't be the only one who does.

He thinks of Natasha, locked away in the Compound, struggling to keep together what remains of their operation. Of Clint, leveraging his sketchiest contacts to disappear and leave a blood trail of unsavory individuals in his wake. His hit numbers grow fast, as does his skill at covering his tracks. Rhodey has little hope of tracking him down. There's a part of him, Tony suspects, that doesn't truly want to.

He thinks of Thor, far away in Norway, trying to rebuild Asgard the best he can. Every time a news crew finds its way over there he catches a glimpse of the emptiness behind his eyes. He looks smaller somehow, stooped over, with a scraggly beard and hands that shake around whatever tool they are holding. He never speaks more than a few words. A few months later, a woman with black hair and worn-out features replaces him. The shadow of tragedy and death haunts her brown eyes as well.

Bruce says her name is Brunnhilde and she used to be a Valkyrie. That Thor calls her a king but she calls herself a regent. He fills him in while munching on a cold turkey sandwich in a gamma lab, while he is glued to a computer screen. By then, a soft green tinge is beginning to cover his hands, an undeniable sign that his plan is working. Tony doesn't really understand his reasoning but he doesn't try to talk him out of it. They all must find a way of dealing with their grief. He's glad Bruce has found his.

Thor has not. In fact, a week after New Asgard is declared an independent nation, Thor leaves Earth without warning. The only explanation is a curt note that arrives in the Compound's mailbox a few days later and whose snapshot finds its way to Tony’s phone via Rhodey. In it, he says he has gone to look for answers. That maybe someone out there knows how to recreate the Stones or how to tap into the same energy without them. His handwriting grows worse as the letter goes on, so much that Tony can hardly make out the last line.

_I'm sorry._

Tony’s throat closes when he reads those smudged words. The context isn't hard to figure out, he has read all the articles that started pouring out after the initial shock had worn off the press. He has found the Internet conspiracy theories linking Thor to Thanos, thousands of angry people swearing up and down that he had a willing hand in the Blip. Even if Thor wasn't tech-savvy enough to get to them, echoes should have reached Asgard at some point. Enough for new rumors to surface claiming that the price for their safe haven was Thor's immediate exile from Earth.

Half of all living things snapped out of existence and Alex Jones is not one of them. The thought prompts a bitter chuckle every time.

Brunnhilde dismissed him and everyone else with a glint of steel in her eye. It did nothing to quiet the conspiracy machine. It doesn't help that, despite his promise to keep them updated, Thor never synced his comm with Natasha at the Compound. Two years later, neither Carol Danvers nor the last remaining Guardians have heard anything from him.

Tony is starting to think he isn’t coming back. The realization stings more than he likes to admit. He wishes he could have seen him one last time, wishes he had caught a plane to Norway in all the months Asgard had been in a political turmoil. The Stark Relief Foundation had sent humanitarian aid their way. They could have dealt with one more passenger.

He didn't. He is not proud of that. He hopes the rest of the team had better judgment but he has his doubts. Bruce is the only one he ever heard talking about Thor and what he heard wasn't good. Their few meetings were described to him as a cycle of reticence and joyless laughter fueled by a growing pile of empty bottles and tear-stained rage, poorly contained behind gritted teeth. The better things looked for Asgard, the more he unraveled, the further he withdrew from everyone. When the time came to decide on his living accommodations, he built a tiny cabin far away from the rest of their settlement, on a craggy hill that seemed to operate on its own weather patterns. Word started going around that the god of thunder was losing his mind.

Tony is well-acquainted with this type of madness. For Thor, like for him a long time ago, the frantic chase to right a sinking ship had come to an end. Everyday routine was starting to emerge and with it, the wounded world became an inescapable reality. And that reality had to be drowned out by any means necessary.

He knows that dark tunnel to its core and back then, he feared taking even a glimpse of it. Not with his own sobriety hanging by a string. He is not proud of that either, especially when his caution doesn't even pay off. The darkness ends up claiming him in a thousand other little ways.

What pushes him off the metaphorical cliff is the global census published on a misty January morning. It prompts a humorless snicker that leaves a disturbed expression on Pepper's face so he chooses to take a walk in the woods surrounding their home and wait for his demons to run themselves into exhaustion. It isn't a good strategy, but it usually works well enough to keep him functional. On that cold winter day, it fails.

Less than four billion people, he thinks in a stupor as he ventures down an untrodden path. Four billion people gone in a flash and three years later, the population is dropping. How long till they are all gone? Will it happen in his lifetime?

A suit of armor around the world, he thinks and laughs, loud enough to scare the magpies pecking at the frozen ground. That's what they needed. A suit made of steel and fire. One that would outlast him, that Peter could inherit to protect them against anything that threatened the tiny blue marble they called home. Except Peter isn't here anymore. His corpse is scattered across a barren wasteland, blown away by aliens winds. And so, EDITH is nothing but a string of deleted code, quietly degrading in a hard-drive fried by the strongest magnets he could find.

He was an idiot. There was nothing that could protect them from what was coming. They were doomed from the get-go, they still are. Some just took longer to realize it than others.

A thick crust of snow cracks under his boots. They are too light for the season and for the terrain but that barely registers as an inconvenience to his numb feet. The tree branches are starting to weave together, blocking out what little sun is seeping through. He must have been wandering for hours, but it gets dark early in these parts. He should check the time.

The thought sinks into the gloom that beckons him from the depths of the snowy woods. His hands are too cold for fiddling with electronics anyway.

He takes another step towards the dark through the crumbling layer of snow. And then, he hears a familiar chime in the depths of his coat. Pepper has sent him a text and it has found its way through the maze of trees despite the choppy reception. With a mechanical motion, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the glowing screen.

It shows a picture of a positive pregnancy test. A short list of baby names follows underneath capped by a smiling emoticon.

For a moment, he can't breathe. A second later, he is fighting back the sharp sting of tears. A shocked smile tugs at his lips and is soon quelled by a profound sense of shame.

He dreamt about having a child with Pepper once. It was a good dream, the kind that made every breath worth taking. Now that dream was going to become a reality and this child would have to grow up in a world he had just written off. Just like he was going to selfishly write himself out of that kid's life before he knew they existed. Before he had the chance to look into their eyes and find out if they were his or Pepper's.

His child does not deserve that. None of the children born after the Blip do. They deserve to grow up on a planet that recovered from its wounds, among people who looked to the same future Steve keeps trying to find. And if the stupidly-named Blip has chosen to spare him, he is going to do his best to give them that.

He is alive for a reason. Again. It just took him a little longer to find it this time.

He pulls his foot out of a deep hole in the snow and rubs his hands to get his blood flowing. The meek winter sun finds his face when he turns away from the dark nest of trees and starts a long trek home. On his way back, he wonders if chained arc reactors could supply power for cities where the infrastructure had collapsed. By the time he gets back, he has a rough idea of how to make it work. By the time Pepper walks through the front door, she is mildly puzzled to find the first draft of the project on her desk.

That night they settle on the name Morgan. It works for both a boy and a girl.

Tony is hoping for a girl.

* * *

His workshop in the Compound remains surprisingly intact.

Save for the thick layer of dust covering every surface, nothing is out of place and nothing has been stored. It feels like walking into a time capsule and it makes him wary of disturbing the chaotic order of prototypes waiting for him to iron out their imperfections. Guilt pecks at him when he realizes his garage is already full of their updated twins, which means those sad shadows can only be cannibalized for parts or melted down. Nothing went to waste in the new world, especially not precious resources like metal.

He pulls open a drawer in his burn-spotted desk. Among rusted bolts, old batteries, and dulled screwdrivers lies exactly what Tony is looking for.

He inspects the silver memory stick for damage and plugs it into an old netbook. It takes the screen a while to light up but when it does, it flashes back rough sketches of an energy-efficient engine. Tony breathes a sigh of relief, at least he doesn't have to start from scratch. That would have easily eaten up three months.

The workshop door slides open in the screen’s reflection. Steve Rogers walks through but doesn't move further than a few steps, his hand tapping the wall for a light switch. It is only then that Tony notices he had been walking in a veiled gloom, diluted only by the dim sunlight trickling through pulled blinds.

His mouth quirks at the corners. Despite the long absence, he still knows this room like the back of his hand.

Steve's eyes narrow under the sharp fluorescent beam as he regards him with a mixture of surprise and disbelief. "I thought I saw your ID in this morning's logs. I was convinced somebody stole your access card but the bio-scanner doesn't lie.” He nods at a Stark Enterprises tote bag hanging over a chair. “Glad to see you've decided to come back to New York."

Tony slips the memory stick into his pocket. "Not likely. Once you get a taste of that mountain air you can't go back. The silence is great too. I don’t miss the car horns as my personal soundtrack."

"There's less traffic here now. Cleaner air too."

Tony shakes his head at the thread of optimism stretched to a breaking point in Steve's voice. Same old Cap, he thinks helplessly, chasing after a silver lining until he can't run any faster. There were times when he admired his resolve. There were others when he wanted to strangle him for it.

"We're staying where we are for now," he says. "Living in the countryside is going to do wonders for Morgan. She can go to school in the nearby town. And I can take her sledding on that shield when she's old enough." He pauses on his way out the door. "That is, unless you want it back."

Steve forces out a smile that does not reach his eyes. "Captain America needed that shield," he replies. "I've come to find Steve Rogers works better without it."

Tony nods, not pressing further as they walk up a flight of stairs. Soon they find themselves in what used to be their Briefing Room and what has become Natasha's base of operations. Tony hopes to find her there but she is gone leaving behind a plate of stale crumbs under the cold light of the holographic screen. His eyes are automatically drawn to the blinking red dot on the left corner, letting him know that the training room is currently in use.

It has been for a while now according to the timestamp.

He thinks of their first meeting at the boxing ring where she kicked Happy right in his pride. He thinks of her now, pulling on boxing gloves in an empty room to train against an enemy she can no longer defeat to quiet the demons that will never stop gnawing at her.

They all must find their own way to deal with grief. He hopes Natasha has found hers.

Steve reaches towards a water pitcher and fiddles with a triangular paper cup. "How's Pepper?" he asks.

"Just past her third trimester. Apparently, this is when the cravings are in full swing." Tony winces as he accidentally presses his bag against a wall and rummages inside, pulling out a crushed cardboard box. "Hope she isn't a stickler for presentation."

Steve snickers and leans over to examine the bright yellow frosting leaking out the damaged side. "She sent you all the way to New York for cupcakes?"

"The cupcakes are a surprise, her favorite bakery is not far from here. I actually came to get some old blueprints and check to see if you guys still remember my face." Tony sets down the stained box and licks honey-flavored goo off his fingers. "Speaking of, you need to keep a better eye on security. Bio-scanners are pretty solid but I checked the entry codes and they have been the same for nearly a year. What's next, setting the password on all our personal information to your birthday?"

Steve gives him a conceding nod. "Nat keeps them static for Rocket and Nebula. It's easier than sending out new ones every month and we have to consider time dilation.” His relaxed expression wavers as he stares at the incoming messages. “She keeps hoping Carol will come back but I doubt it. After Thanos's death, she tried to track down Maria Rambeau and her daughter. All signs pointed to the worst."

A thoroughly depressing conversation bubbles up in Tony's memory as he tries to recall the few details Rhodey was able to provide. "That's messed up," he mutters. "Does she have anyone left at all?"

"Not really. Brother died in Vietnam, mother succumbed to leukemia shortly after. I don't know what became of her old man but I don't think they were close." Steve taps the flimsy paper cup, then throws it in the bin without ever filing it up. "That's probably why she's been moving further away from us. The Rambeaus and Fury were the last threads connecting her to Earth and losing them must have hit hard. A lot of people in the group can't even go back to the apartment they shared with loved ones. Some moved cities altogether. I know Sharon's parents did after all their children were erased."

Tony bites his lip as he hears the thin thread of optimism wobble. "I'm sorry about that," he says. "Do you keep in touch with them?"

"I never officially met them. Sharon and I split up long before the Blip." Steve's attention drifts over to the window where the traffic is indeed a lot sparser than Tony remembers. "Nat keeps saying I should date again. I can't tell if she's joking or not."

"If you do, you should stop shaving. The beard made you look more dignified."

Steve chuckles and rubs his chin where light stubble is beginning to form. "Thor says the same thing, that's two against one. Maybe you both have a point."

“I don’t remember you ever caring about odds.” Tony inspects the coffee pot, trying to decide if what is left inside is worth risking. The implications of Steve's words only reach him when he is halfway through filling a cup with its questionable contents. "Wait, Thor’s back?"

Steve hums a vague confirmation. "He was here a week ago, going through old data logs. I ran into him completely by chance when I was picking up my laundry. Startled the living daylight out of me until I realized who I was looking at.” He glances up, not bothering to hide his puzzlement at Tony’s shocked silence. “He asked about you. I assumed he was dropping in on you and Pepper next."

Tony returns a dejected frown. "He didn't even drop in when he left. I wish he had, I haven't seen him in forever. Pretty much since..."

He trails off as he swills the coffee in his cup. It looks like an unholy marriage of machine oil and burnt tobacco so he pours it out and realizes he had last spoken to Thor right here, a few weeks after Steve and the rest had returned from the Garden. Tony had just begun to recover from malnutrition and had shuffled to this same machine hoping that someone had learned to make a decent brew in his absence. Thor had been there to pick up what remained of his things in the Compound. There were bags under his eyes even then.

They didn't talk for long, and what they talked about wasn't uplifting. Tony told him about Titan, losing Peter and most of the Guardians. He learned about Hela and the fall of Asgard, about the forging of Stormbreaker and the subsequent failed attempt to kill Thanos. Thor's voice had cracked with guilt multiple times through the last part, shoulders drawn close in an unnatural way and fingers woven tightly together. His eyes, one blue, one a warm shade of brown had born a vacant expression. They never looked up at him once.

At the time, he couldn't tell if Thor feared Tony’s anger or if he was holding back his own, like a caged storm tearing itself to pieces. He was out the door before Tony could find out. Before he could tell him he had nothing to fear.

He runs a finger over the chipped rim of the cup. "How is he?" he asks tentatively.

Steve heaves a very telling sigh. "Not great,” he replies. “He looked rough when I met him, like he hadn't slept in days. Or like he had been sleeping for too long." He crosses his arms, blond eyebrows knitting together in recollection. "I don't know, he seemed..."

"Spacey?"

The nod Steve gives him carries little conviction. "More like scattered. Like he was rushing somewhere one moment and not knowing where he was going the next. I asked if he was planning to stay, but I didn't get a clear answer." His eyes veer towards the gray horizon again, watching bushy snowflakes drift by. "I guess that's as good as a no."

Tony's heart sinks in the heavy silence that follows. "Do you know what files he was looking at?"

Steve lets out a pensive hum. "I didn't check," he admits. "Didn't have the time, there was a meeting across the city in less than an hour and I was already running late. I thought it would do him good so I brought him along."

Tony feels an involuntary twitch across the left side of his face. For a moment, he is reduced to speaking in single, chopped syllables. "You did what? Why?"

The corners of Steve’s mouth rise in a sad smile. "What do you think? Because he lost his entire family and instead of trying to rebuild his life, he chose to run from everything that reminds him of it." He turns away from the window and flips through a thin brown notebook under the holographic screen. "I've seen this happen over and over with grieving people. They think that by changing everything around them the pain will stop but I'm pretty sure there isn't a single place in the universe where you can hide from yourself. I think that’s why he came back."

Blue eyes give him a long, meaningful look. The twitch across Tony's cheek returns. "He told us why he left. You think that was a lie?"

"If it was, he was lying to himself as well.” There's a brief pause as Steve takes Natasha’s empty plate to the sink. "This is a classic case of bargaining, Tony. He is stuck, he can't let go of what was lost. It’s perfectly normal but the opposite of productive.” He sighs, wiping away stray crumbs. “I understand how he feels, you know? I could have told him that if he had come to me first."

"Do you understand how he feels? Or did you just assume that before you put him in a room with Blip survivors?” 

Steve shakes his head with a kind of practiced resignation. "We're all Blip survivors," he says. "I told him there was a place for people dealing with loss, one where he could express his grief in a safe environment. I thought that hearing other people’s experiences might help him open up but in the end, he didn't say a single word." Silence trails after him again, cold and empty as the streets below. "It happens more often than you'd expect,” he adds, “first sessions are never easy. I guess he just needs a little more time."

Tony doesn't reply. He suddenly becomes very aware of blood pulsing in his ears like distant waves crashing against an invisible shore. “Were you living under a rock the year after the Blip? Even if you were, didn’t you think he deserved to know where he was going? Didn’t you think he might feel just a bit guilty about what happened in Wakanda?”

This time, his voice could have cut glass. A ripple crosses the calm surface behind Steve’s eyes as his lips press into a hard line. "Of course he does,” he replies eventually. “We all do, but we move on from that too. We have to. It's the only way we survive."

He pulls a stained glass pot towards himself and busies his hands with a paper filter. Tony stands rooted to the spot, watching him put on a new batch of coffee. Anger coarses through him, the same visceral anger that poured out unrestrained when he returned to Earth. He had come to regret it over time and yet, here he is, dangerously close to doing the same thing all over again. The urge is almost overwhelming as he unclenches his hands and counts to ten.

"For what it's worth,” he hears Steve say over the murmur of boiling water, “I think it worked. Even if he didn't talk, it definitely helped him collect his thoughts."

Tony swallows a hard lump in his throat. "Yeah? Did he tell you that? Did you even ask?"

Steve’s shoulders rise under a beige shirt. "He wasn't in a talking mood back then. But that’s okay, I wanted to give him space to process everything.” He drums his fingers on the table as the first dark drop lands on the glass bottom of the pot. “Sometimes we need to watch others walk before we can run. It’s not supposed to be easy."

"Have you heard from him since? Did he say where he was going?"

“Like I said, he wasn't in a talking mood.” Steve looks up in puzzlement as Tony shoves the damaged cupcake box in the fridge and moves towards the door. “Hang on, where are _you_ going?”

Tony fumbles with his phone, flicking through several screens in increasing frustration. It takes him a few moments to remember he can no longer check air traffic from it. He has reverted back to an older model, one that does not carry FRIDAY’s gentle voice or her efficiency. He did not realize how much he missed that.

He did not miss the power armor. But it would cut his travel time in half.

He stops, trying to recall the code to the suit stored away two floors below him. “To see a friend,” he replies and walks out, right as the red light of the training room switches back to green.

* * *

The sky grows darker as Tony approaches his destination.

It isn't just the natural lack of sunlight that Norway has to deal with during the long winter months. The country lies six hours ahead of New York and the day grows shorter as he speeds through thick, gray clouds, grateful for the heating system in the armor. Ice crystals keep building up over his faceplate and he hears them scape the metal surface as they slide off. His sensors tell him the air outside is at twenty-six degrees Fahrenheit, which isn't unusual for the end of February. Still, he is beginning to long for the sun as it dips further behind the horizon.

He glances at a long list of unanswered calls lining up on his visor. He has been trying to reach Bruce for hours but his phone is either turned off or critically out of range. The latter is a common occurrence when he locks himself in the lab and though Tony can hardly pass judgment, he finds himself grumbling at his timing. He doesn't have any contacts in New Asgard and Bruce is the only one who's been there enough times to point him in the right direction. Without him, Tony's best bet is to land on foreign soil, very late in the evening, among people who do not know him and start knocking on doors until he finds someone willing to help.

All of that proves unnecessary in the end. Thor's new home on Earth stands exactly where the rumors said it would be.

It still takes Tony a while to spot it on his way down. The lonely hill rising over the village of New Asgard lies under a thick blanket of snow which doesn’t seem to touch the roofs of the houses below. It is also beset by an oddly localized blizzard that rocks him from side to side when he walks up the gentle slope towards a small wooden cabin at the very top. Every once in a while, he stumbles over a root or the remains of a stump. Soon enough, his eyes find an irregular outline of pine trees etched against the night sky less than fifty feet away. They grow close together, holding armfuls of snow as they sway and shudder under the inclement weather. The stark wind blowing through their branches sounds almost melodic.

A thin sheet of frost cracks beneath the metal fist when he knocks on the heavy oak door. He repeats the process a few more times before giving up and trying to let himself in. His efforts are thwarted when he finds the hinges stuck fast, encrusted with ice to the point of practically disappearing beneath it. After a few seconds under the lowest setting on his repulsors they thaw and let out a low moan as he pushes the door open.

He calls out for Thor before stepping through the doorway. He gets no answer.

It is freezing cold inside the cabin, despite the windows being intact. There is barely any furniture except for a wardrobe ravaged by woodworms, a narrow bed, and a table pushed against a wall. Empty soup cans pile up on top of it. Colorful candy wrappers he doesn't recognize lie scattered across the floor mixing with pale ash that spills out of a small fireplace. It hasn't been lit in a long time. He finds no firewood around either.

His eyes settle on a nearly empty plastic bottle. Under these conditions, it should have frozen solid but when he turns it over, water drips onto the floor, scurrying away between the cracks in the wood. Thor was here, he thinks. Probably not long ago. Six or seven hours at most.

He lowers himself on the bed and hears it creak in protest under the weight of the power suit. At the same time, a crackling sound from under the blankets catches his attention. When he pulls them aside, several empty pill blisters tumble to the floor and land between his feet.

They are a Norwegian brand of a potent sleeping pill. He knows that because FRIDAY, in her infinite wisdom, finds the information faster than he can ask. Or because she knows that he is afraid to. Just as he's afraid to pull the blankets further when he hears another telltale crackle as he shifts his weight on the bed.

He leaves the room without looking and lets the wind slam the door shut.

Outside the blizzard is starting to settle down. The heavy snowfall that had clouded his vision on his way up has dissolved into sparse white flakes calmly drifting from the indigo sky. A crescent moon hangs over him and he scans the snow for footsteps, knowing full well he is wasting his time. Any tracks would have been snowed over long before he got to the cabin, the same goes for any mark the Bifrost could have left behind. He doesn't even know if Stormbreaker works that way. At this point, he doesn't know anything, only that his hands are steadily gathering cold sweat under the power armor and his chest is a hollow drum. His thoughts, usually shouting over one another, slink away one by one into terrified silence.

_He might need us at some point and we wouldn’t even know._

That was what he said last time he saw the Bifrost seal burnt into the lawn in front of the Compound. But Tony knew. Of course, he knew, and it made no difference whatsoever. 

Who is he to argue with Steve, he seethes as FRIDAY’s infrared scan sweeps the trees ahead. Steve tried. So did Bruce two years ago. Where was Tony all this time?

He barely knows the answer himself. The year that followed the Blip, as well as the next two float in bits and pieces in his head and they have been cobbling themselves together these past months. They say depression can give you memory loss and whoever they are, Tony absolutely believes them. He has come to see it as a survivor instinct, a way for the mind to protect itself by erasing the bits that keep it from functioning. The human brain could be remarkable like that.

_He doesn’t have a human brain, remember?_

The moonlit snow blanketing every inch of the lonely hill blurs before his eyes. In the distance, the trees hum a familiar song, branches swaying in the dark. They all must find a way of dealing with their grief, he thinks numbly. Otherwise, the woods come calling.

A blue dot blinks in the upper corner of his visor. A second later, his helmet is flooded with persistent static as someone on the other end of the comm demands his attention. Tony feels his breath catch. He knows the cadence of that particular interference by heart. He has been trying to work around it for years.

"Thor?”

The fearful hope in his voice is met by another wave of static. The signal is weak, very weak, and Tony wonders if it is coming from the same comm they were using during their final battle against Ultron. If so, it is a small miracle it was still working, not to mention that it was even compatible with the suit’s upgraded interface.

"Thor?” he calls out again, trying in vain to isolate anything resembling speech from the deafening noise. “Is that you? Talk to me!"

The signal wavers, threatening to fade completely. It stabilizes for a less than a second, just in time for a single word to slip through. “Stark…”

"Thor! Goddamn it, where are you?" Tony finally manages to locate the GPS ID of the comm and curses under his breath when he realizes how far away he is from it. "Never mind, just keep the channel open and stay put! I'm triangulating your position..."

He pauses, skimming the data before his eyes and blinks as he forces himself to re-examine it. He must be undercaffeinated or unused to processing a lot of information quickly. Or just plain tired because there is no way he is reading that right.

But FRIDAY doesn’t make mistakes. And all of the satellites drifting in a merry-go-round across Earth’s orbit can’t be conspiring to throw him off his mark. He is definitely staring at the same spot in an isolated Sokovian mountain range where Strucker’s base used to be. And it fills him with nothing but apprehension.

"What the hell?” he breathes. “What are you doing there?"

The storm that roars in his helmet loses its rage as the signal grows stronger. Thor’s next words come through clear enough for him to catch the bone-deep exhaustion in his voice. "Come meet me and I will explain."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter is being written as we speak. In the meantime, if you liked this one, please let me know. Whether you are a newcomer or not, comments fill my heart with joy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... crazy weather we're having, huh?
> 
> Sorry it's been so long guys, life has been getting increasingly weird. I'm dropping an extra-long chapter to compensate. Again, I cannot thank my beta enough for their tireless patience.

"Stay here."

The girl’s tone tries and fails to convey authority. Thor still obeys without question, stopping right where the dark, moist earth of the garden meets a narrow path lined with green tiles. She is way too young to be a guard. Her exact age is difficult to guess but the way her helmet sits over her eyebrows tells him that she has a few more years to go before earning her rank. That is probably why she does not carry the traditional shortsword with the Royal sigil and is armed with an iron-tipped quarterstaff. She does not seem too comfortable with it or with the fact that it is strapped to her hip.

She is not the only one facing such a predicament. Shortly after his arrival in Vanaheim, Thor had come across a lot of teenagers in soft leather armor, looking awkward beside guards in full regalia. Their numbers have grown significantly since his last time here and the reason is not a mystery. The streets leading up to the palace are papered with recruitment posters that promise wages far beyond those of a skilled spell-weaver. The glue used to put them up gives off a pungent stench which after a while begins to turn his stomach. He had been relieved when the surly escort assigned to him abandoned the busy main streets for the outskirts, where white stone buildings rose in stark contrast to the red brick making up most of the city. Inside those walls, wild ivy draped down the windows, silence drowned out the cries of merchants, and the wind carried nothing but the memory of incense.

Despite the welcome change of scenery, he had walked with his head down, feeling extremely fortunate and like an intruder. He had only been inside the Holy Quarter once when Marauders raided the Vanir capital and it had to be hastily evacuated. None of the priests had hidden their displeasure and though it had frustrated him at the time, he had come to understand their fierce protectiveness of the place. It was one of the last few spots on the planet free from Asgardian influence, where traditional Vanir architecture was left untouched and crumbling tomes still held records of their earliest history. As he caught their distrustful glances during the siege, Thor had the feeling they would defend it with their bare hands before allowing him to come to their aid. Perhaps they feared that if Asgard had any hand in saving their sacred ground, it would feel entitled to its secrets as well.

To this day, he cannot say that their fears were unfounded or if the High-Priestess of Vanaheim still shares them. Much in the same way, he does not know what to think about the queen allowing him entry into the Grand Temple instead of summoning her to the palace. It could be an unexpected display of trust or a sign of changing times. Given her court’s tense reaction, he can afford no such illusions, so he reminds himself to keep his eyes open.

He leans against an alabaster pond where goldfish swim between blades of rivergrass. A few recruitment posters managed to find their way to the Temple Garden, flapping in the wind like colorful kites. One of them hangs right on the temple door and bears the picture of a determined-looking man described as a valiant noble willing to waive his military wages for the chance to serve his people. The moment Thor finishes reading, a novice in long robes tears the poster off and mutters something unintelligible. The glossy paper instantly turns to cinder that falls through their earth-stained fingers.

Thor breathes a dejected sigh. The ever-present tension in the city is beginning to set him on edge and makes him miss home more than ever. He tugs on a strip of braided leather around his neck as, once again, his thoughts turn to Brunnhilde. It has been nearly two Earth years since they said goodbye on a jagged Norwegian cliff under the piercing cries of the gulls. She was the only one he had told about his intentions and, fittingly, she had spent a week trying to talk him out of them. Her parting gift had been a beautiful culmination of her failure, a medallion cast from red gold on which a fierce-looking serpent curled around the rim to swallow its own tail. Below its scaled belly, boats sailed across the sea, birds drifted over the sky and roofs dotted the distant shore, spreading towards a treelined horizon

The delicate craftwork woven with silver strands had left him breathless. It brought a shocked smile to his lips, which was soon stifled by shame as actual joy failed to follow. The beast had been a symbol of rebirth for their people and when the Statesman was venturing into the freezing darkness of space, rebirth was all he could think of. He had dreamt of a new beginning under Midgardian skies, of a holy union between two planets he treasured and after a grueling year, that dream had come true. His people were starting to recover from the trauma of Thanos's slaughter. The loss of their homeland had begun to scar. Artisans were picking up tools of their old trade and judging from the warmth and soft feel of the metal, their magic had also found a new life.

And yet, he was slowly drifting away from it all, into a deep hole that smelled of grain alcohol and stale bread. Few people were willing to follow him there and even fewer were willing to stay long. He cannot fault anyone for his eventual loneliness. Not when the air around his isolated cabin turned everyone's breath into fog and rainwater never stopped leaking from his roof.

He turned the amulet in his hands admiring the preciseness of every line. "I can't accept this," he said. "It's worth a brand new fishing boat. Or food for four months."

"Or combat training for a jeweler’s daughter who is not keen on her father's trade." Brunnhilde shook her head and closed a warm hand over his when he tried to hand it back. "It's done, Thor. You can't change my mind any more than I can change yours. Am I wrong?"

There was a fatalistic streak to her question that managed to break his heart a bit further. "I thought we agreed that you were never wrong.”

She let out a defeated laugh. "Good, then we are on the same page. You can put the magic axe down and go back inside."

She turned away from the dawn lapping at the ashen clouds and tossed her head towards the hills over New Asgard. The sorry shape Thor’s cabin had become in the winter months was barely a dot in the distance and for a moment, he felt ashamed of the state he had left it in. He should have smashed it to splinters and rebuilt it upon his return but he feared that would send the wrong message. The very same fear tugged at his heart when he met her eyes and had to extinguish the hope in them yet again.

"I can't. It is high time I put Stormbreaker to better use than a bottle opener."

"Do you really think something can reverse what Thanos did?"

The words were a formality. Her real question lay beneath the surface for a very good reason. No reassurance from Thor could assuage her worries and they were both painfully aware of that. Self-loathing tied his tongue as he watched the sun peek over the horizon with a prickling feeling in his eyes. At times like these, he would have done anything to mold himself into what she needed, like iron under a blacksmith's hammer. There was nothing he wanted more than to be her unbreakable rock, instead of what months of drunken isolation had turned him into. Then she would not look at him with such sorrow. Then she would not even entertain the idea that he was about to leave her and Asgard for good.

"The universe is a big place," he said. "There is bound to be someone who knows more about Infinity Stones than us. I have a few contacts in Xandar. I can start with them and go from there. Even if they didn’t survive, they could have kept records."

She shrugged philosophically, arms wrapped around her waist. "When should we expect you back?"

"I don't know."

He knew it was the wrong answer before he had finished speaking. Brunnhilde rubbed her temples under strands of black hair. "There are others out there already. Your people need you here."

Thor hung his head in thought. Far above, reedy clouds drifted closer, darkening the freshly awoken sky as raindrops began to settle upon the grass. "No, they don't. I have been nothing but a burden recently. They deserve better."

"Are you serious right now?" His blank look is met by utter disbelief. “Your trade agreement holds. You built practically all our fishing fleet and it has been doing better than ever. I don't know if you forgot about the school you founded but it already has its first students. We even have a cultural exchange with Wakanda!"

"You did all the heavy lifting on that one. You should be proud."

"And you should get your head out of your royal behind."

Her voice was leveled. She did not need to raise it to strike him into silence but as she closed her hand over a windswept forehead, it was clear that silence was not what she wanted. "Why did you make me regent if you weren't going to listen to a word I say?"

"You are a king. I thought we agreed on that as well."

She snapped her head up as a very regal spark lit up her eyes. "Fine! Would you have me throw you in the deepest cellar we have? I'm sure it will be better than your hovel and at least we would feed you decent food!" Thor's short laugh was not returned as Brunnhilde tucked a braid behind her ear and added more calmly. "Do you remember when we got here?"

He gave her a wordless nod, casting a quick glance across the cliff. There were still bare patches that marked the spots where escape pods had landed, forever scorching the earth. Some of them contained only gray dust and at the time, the sight had hollowed out his joy at seeing her alive. Her arms around him had been an unwelcome comfort that he had returned because she needed it. If she had stabbed him, he would have considered it a fitting end.

It was his duty to them that had chased those thoughts away. But at the end of the day, even duty had not been enough.

Brunnhilde's stare burned his skin like dragon fire. "You told me everything would be alright," she said. "I know that we had a rough start, but you have kept your word. Why would you leave us now that things are looking up?"

Her question was punctuated by a low rumble overhead as the gentle drizzle intensified. Cold seeped into his bones, a last remnant of the dying winter. "I wish I didn't have to, but I can't stay. Not like this."

"Like what?" Again, he could not bring himself to speak so she blew past his reticence. "I wasn't there when Thanos snapped the Gauntlet but I know you did everything you could. So if this is some self-inflicted punishment, do me a favor and stop. Asgard doesn't need a martyr. Neither does Earth."

"I'm no martyr, Val. I'm just trying to set things right."

The strategic use of her nickname did nothing to soften the blow. Her jaw set, locking away the argument stewing behind her eyes and he felt sorry for her. They had grown close during their first months on Earth, into a king and queen fighting to keep their few subjects safe. He had been driven then, focused, sharp, and sleepless for the right reasons. It had to have been hard to watch that version of him gradually waste away. It would have been even harder to learn how much of a charade that version was.

He would never admit to anyone that what kept him going was the dire need of his people and the sheer momentum of an ever-changing crisis. He still remembered Steve's remarks about how quickly he had gotten back on his feet and held back poisoned laughter. He had fled as fast as his legs could carry him from the soul-sucking void closing over his head from the moment Thanos's decapitated body hit the ground. He had fled from it through every meeting with the Norwegian government, every day of back-breaking labor all the way to New Asgard's legitimacy. It was only when things settled down that it caught up with him and he realized that despite getting everything he wanted, he could not bring himself to feel anything at all.

He had tried to brush it off. He tried to focus on one task after another, but in the end, the void consumed everything and made every happy event meaningless. He had watched their small village take shape, children smiling again and was horrified at his own lack of reaction. Brunnhilde used to update him on their progress and though at first, he had hung on her every word, with time her voice became a dull drone. Meili's daughters had managed to plant barley and rye and their first crop was bound to exceed expectations. Young Baldr was learning to spin moonlight for the lighthouse upon the cliff. People from the local villages were starting to come over and friendships were flourishing.

None of that mattered in a half-dead world. Nothing would change that it was so because of him.

That was why he had given up his title. New Asgard deserved a monarch that was capable of feeling joy for their strides forward and sorrow for their setbacks. He thought that he could turn to manual labor but when winter came and construction came to a halt, the void became inescapable. It was also when the dreams began.

He could not call them nightmares. He was well-acquainted with those ever since they had interrupted his search for the Infinity Stones and led him to Surtur's cage. These were dreams of competitive laughter echoing over Stark Tower, of burnt popcorn, and the warm glow of screens. They were dreams of wild lavender growing in Erik Selvig's summer home where they had all celebrated his retirement on a warm July evening. Of Jane's soft hands in his hair and the smell of her perfume that would linger on his skin for days. He had come to fear those dreams as much as any nightmare. The emptiness they left behind could only be filled with more alcohol until true darkness came over him.

Both Erik and Jane were gone, as were Darcy and Ian. Their last picture together had hung in his cabin before a hailstorm shattered his window and the howling wind swept it away. He had looked for it for days, wading endlessly through the snow until on the coldest, darkest night of the year it dawned on him that he was looking for the wrong thing in the wrong place.

There was no point in clinging to their memory. There was even less of a point in drowning his sorrows as eternity stretched before him. He was going to venture into another long, dark night and bring them back. He was going to bring everybody back, even if he did not know how yet.

He lay a hand on Brunnhilde's shoulder and drew her into a hug. "I'm sorry. I have to go."

She held him close under a gray curtain of rain. It glistened on her eyelashes as she looked up at him and gently pulled away. "Don't apologize to me, just promise that you'll come back. You can't change the past but you deserve a future just as much as the man who made this amulet. Try not to die before you get that through your thick skull."

His mouth quirked and her chiding tone. "You have my word," he replied. "Good luck with your apprentice, your majesty."

"I don't need it, the girl is a natural." Her hand lingered on his arm before she stepped back as the wind sent her braids into a frenzy. "Take care of yourself, Thor. I hope you find what you're looking for."

The words had left a dent upon his soul as the Bifrost descended upon him. On their last night together, Jane had said the same thing in the same wistful tone and though he had quickly reassured her, he had no such words for the former Valkyrie. Back then, he had a clear goal even though his path was less than certain. Now, he is stumbling through darkness in a world thrown into chaos, and whatever answer he is hoping for seems to slip ever further away.

He still does not know what he is looking for. But he hopes he has found someone who can point him in the right direction.

The door of the Grand Temple creaks open and his young guide steps out. She has removed the flimsy helmet, letting a wave of curly hair cascade freely over her shoulders. Brown eyes glance at him from across the tiled path as she beckons him inside.

He nods and steps into a narrow hallway. It is only after he has walked halfway across it that he notices she has slunk out of the building, leaving him alone with the golden light of oil lamps and his own flickering shadow.

* * *

He does not find the high-priestess in the Prayer Chamber.

She is not in the Temple's Library either and the young novices hunched over sacred texts in quiet reverence are not eager to talk to him. Their wary eyes follow his every move as he walks into the Archive but finds himself disappointed again. The same fate awaits him in the greenhouse at the heart of the building and in the aviary that breeds the most-valuable songbirds in the Nine Realms. It takes him about ten more minutes of aimless wandering to reach the Meditation Wing, where incense permeates even the bleached floorboards. That is where he finds her, sitting behind a stone table in the company of two teenage girls. Though her face is familiar, it is not the one he expects to see.

Both of her companions freeze when they see him. Their hands tighten around marble pestles grinding blue petals into a fine powder. The high-priestess does not even flinch as she lays down her instrument and rubs some liniment into her wrists.

"That will be enough for today," she says. "You may take your leave."

The girls waver as they rise to their feet. They glance at him in vague recognition and Thor has to hold back a self-conscious smile. He has seen that look many times in his journey across the stars and though he rarely seeks out mirrors, he wonders if he has really changed that much. When he first returned to Earth, his cropped hair and missing eye had thrown some people for a loop, but never for more than seconds. Eventually, they saw the former king of Asgard behind the ravages of Hela and Sakaar. Now all they appeared to see was a vagabond who had lost his way.

Then again, in those days, he had lacked the dark circles under his eyes or the persistent slouch. He also did not have to summon every ounce of strength to gather his thoughts and communicate with another living soul. All the protocol training seared into his bones has fractured into pieces as has his concentration and his awareness of basic needs. There are days when his head is swimming and he cannot understand why until he remembers he hasn’t eaten or drunk anything in a while. There are others that seem to go on forever until he realizes he has forgone sleep once again.

It is hard to keep track of time in space. It didn’t use to be this hard.

The girls wring their pollen-stained hands. The woman only regards them with an exasperated glare and points towards a door at the back. After some hesitation, they scurry away, blue petals clinging to their toes as the high-priestess sweeps the fruits of her labor into a mortar. When she turns to Thor, there is no doubt about whether she recognizes him. In her spare visits to the Asgardian court, her eyes used to grow just as cold when she laid them upon Odin.

She stands up, adjusting the golden diadem around her temples. It is only then that Thor remembers his teachings and drops to one knee.

"Mastress Aelva," he mutters. "Forgive me, I did not mean to interrupt the ceremony."

She casts a jaded look at the fragrant dust strewn about the smooth surface. "It can wait," she says. "The crafting of incense is supposed to teach the young to still their tempers. I am in my fiftieth cycle and it has done no such thing.” She pauses, faint lines around her mouth growing deeper. “Perhaps we should start practicing it sooner.”

Thor's only response is to bow his head in respect. The smile upon the woman's lips breaks as she walks towards him, stretching a hand towards his head. He struggles to hide his embarrassment when her fingers touch the messy hair he has done his best to wrestle into a presentable ponytail.

"They tell me you seek Mastress Keadra,” she says. “I am afraid you are too late. She is no longer among us."

A row of candles burning with a mourning white flame in the Prayer Chamber bubbles up in Thor’s memory. "You have my condolences," he replies. "Was it...?"

He clams up, unsure of how to continue. Thanos’s name still burns his throat like bile but she spares him from uttering it. "Soulrot took her three days before the Calamity happened. To think that if she had held on a bit longer, her death may have been swift and painless.” Her lips quirk in a mirthless laugh as she gestures for him to rise. “Did you know she used to fear this very moment? She said that if a son of Odin set foot in the Grand Temple, the Holy Quarter would be lost to us forever."

There’s no accusation in her voice but Thor can hear its distant echo. "I tried to spare you from that. I had no choice."

"You are a dagger in my back. My resentment lies with the hand that wields you.” She walks towards a shallow pool where wilting flowers float upon shimmering water. “It seems that Queen Cevrenne has yet to still her own temper. She sent you here to remind me I cannot escape her will.”

Bitterness coats her words as Thor frowns. “She was close to becoming a priestess herself. Why would she do that?”

“Grief, I presume.” Aelva dips her hands under the plants and scoops up those that have begun to rot. “The Calamity claimed her parents along with nearly all our mages. She believes magic failed to protect Vanaheim so she refuses to let us train new ones. She has been working day and night to expand the Royal Guard into an army.” Her chuckle is loaded to the brim with contempt. “Nothing good comes from putting weapons in the hands of thousands and filling their heads with patriotic fervor. Suddenly the neighboring worlds start looking ripe for the taking.”

This time, the accusation is deliberate and well-aimed. Whatever Thor could have said, she has already disregarded as she paces along the side of the pool with hands behind her back. “A country’s strength does not lie in its soldiers. Our previous queen understood that but Cevrenne fears losing what she has left so much, she will not listen to me. She has split her court in a time when division is our greatest foe. I fear that in her eagerness to protect us, she will bring about a civil war.”

“Not if your mages return. Not if you regained everything you have lost.”

She stops in her tracks, wooden sandals clacking against the floor. “So it is true,” she says. “Some merchants from Nidavellir claimed the son of Odin was roaming through space like a lost cub searching for a way to bring back the dead.” Her lips part in a thin smile. “Is that why you sought Keadra’s wisdom? If so, you are beyond reason as well.”

Thor bows his head again, doing his best to ignore the anxiety clutching at him. Initial rejection has followed him everywhere, but after two years, it is becoming a sore spot. Still, he gathers his resolve, wondering how long it will hold. “I seek the wisdom of the High-Priestess of Vanaheim. If that is you, then I could ask for no better master for my second-sight.”

He is not prepared for her visceral reaction, or for the shard of ice that rises in her eyes. “Do not play me for a fool, Odinson! Your mother may have had Vanir ancestry but no daughters to inherit her clairvoyance. Fate would not be so cruel as to give it to you!”

Thor resists the impulse to argue that fate must have a sense of humor. “I know how it sounds. It took me a long time to understand but I would not be here if I was not certain.” Doubt flickers across the priestess’s face but he presses on, relentless. “Is it not true that Vanir can search for answers in their visions? That Mastress Derra of Wind Valley found a way to draw out pain by meditating in the Prayer Chamber for a fortnight?”

“If memory serves right, your people were not impressed. They believe pain builds character after all.” Thor’s apology is instantly frozen under another cold glance. “It matters not, Derra was not foolish. Even if, by some miracle, you were to master that kind of trance, it will not show you what does not exist. If there was a power that could restore those lost to us, we would have seen it by now.”

She turns away, putting their conversation to a very clear end. Thor’s heart sinks as she resumes her work on the remains of the flowers and suddenly, the terrible whisper lurking at the edge of his mind can no longer be ignored. Desist, it says. It is all for nothing. You had your chance to save the universe and you wasted it. Learn to live with your sorrow instead of begging for another.

“Then you lose nothing by teaching me,” he insists, pushing the venomous voice back. “You said you had no one to train. You do now.”

Aelva lets out a curt laugh. “Do not flatter yourself. Your brother I could have worked with but your ineptitude for magic was not a well-hidden secret. If you ask me, it is fitting for the king of Asgard.”

“I’m not the king of Asgard anymore.” That gets her attention enough to lift her head and regard him with cautious intrigue. “I know you and my father had your differences but my mother always spoke highly of you. I know she treasured your council and I saw you shed tears at her funeral. If her memory is still dear to you, please do not cast me aside!”

A tremor runs across Aelva’s face. She sits still, arms crossed over her robe speckled with crushed petals. After a while, she rises to her feet, brushing away a cloud of pollen. “Kneel.”

He stares back in confusion, prompting a subtle eye-roll from the woman. “Kneel,” she repeats and gestures for him to come closer. “If you truly think you are blessed with Frigga’s gift, you will let me look inside your mind. Then we shall see if it was fate or delusion that brought you here.”

An odd glint crosses the silver eyes but Thor obeys, lowering himself on the bleached floorboards. Even so, she stands only a head taller, watching him with a curious detachment, the way his father would admire a new breed of hound. He hears her draw two steady breaths as she half-hums, half-whispers something. His limbs start to grow heavy. Somewhere at the back of his mind, his warrior instinct stirs from a long slumber and screams for him to run.

He does not. The high-priestess gives him another appraising glance and brings her hand over his forehead.

Hot, endless, maddening pain tears his head apart. The room drops out from under him into a fiery pit that smells of sulfur and charred bone. Acrid smoke gets into his eyes, causing them to water. He cannot do anything about it for now. He is in chains, though it is not against his will.

Surtur thinks he has him right where he wants him. He is right but Thor does not know it yet. He thinks he is in control, that destiny is something he can sidestep with enough time and foresight. As Asgard crumbles before his eyes, he comes to learn how wrong he is.

Flesh and bone pulse against his skull and the world shifts into a dimension of blood and fear. If he screams, he cannot hear it as the flames consume even the air from his lungs. Something hard is clamped over his mouth as the stench of burning fuel floods his nose. Behind him, a child wails for help.

Before him, Thanos’s sword pierces Heimdall through the chest. Crimson splatters the blade, pools on the filthy metal floor with every dying gasp. The child wails for his mother again and is silenced with a sickening crunch. A rage-filled roar fills his ears, then fades, leaving him alone and useless amidst the slaughter. When he manages to break free, Loki’s empty eyes stare at him from beneath his groping hands. His body has long since grown cold.

_No… please, not again… make it stop…_

His mind burns, writhing in the same fire that spreads through the ship. It blinds him to everything except the pain until it explodes into a void which freezes even the tears in his eyes. In another layer of reality, something presses harder against his forehead and the world shatters, sending him through the cracks into heat and light. The deafening noise of war machines rattles the dry Wakandan air amidst the shrieks of the Chitauri.

Another battle. But this time he is ready. This time, he will make him pay.

Stormbreaker sings in his hand as power flows through him. He drinks it in, lets his thirst for revenge take control. Thanos’s scream is music to his ears as he plunges the axe into his chest and watches the purple eyes widen in shock. Hatred drips from Thor’s every word to him. It is not enough.

_You should have gone for the head._

There is a snap. One second. That was all it took.

Everything descends into chaos and he cannot breathe. Every ounce of hatred leaves him, slides away like a shroud and suddenly, he is cold and stiff. Steve’s voice rings in his head, repeating the same question over and over but Thor will not answer him. If he does, he feels like he might never stop screaming.

_I make grave mistakes all the time. Everything seems to work out._

Whoever said that, he wonders through a numb haze. He should find that miserable fool and beat them to a bloody pulp until their own mother could not recognize them. Then he could restore them back to health to do it again. And again, and again. Until the last star in the universe burns itself out.

_It hurts. It hurts so much._

_So let it._

His mouth fills with the taste of bile and metal. Something warm and sticky flows over his lips, dripping over his curled fingers. Feral lightning convulses in him and as a loud crack reverberates in his skull, he feels Rocket’s gift shatter. As the overwhelming agony consumes him, he can barely feel the priestess let go of his head before he loses all grasp on thought and sinks into oblivion.

* * *

Tony does not believe in ghosts.

He does believe in bad karma leaving a mark on a place and in that regard, the castle where they found the Chitauri Scepter is definitely haunted. Its shady history long predates HYDRA. King Andrik the Second built it for his nephew, who by the age of ten had cut off a handmaiden’s ear and thrown his baby sister under the wheels of a carriage. The country’s tallest peak was not enough to protect the people from him, and as the turnover of servants grew higher, so did the boy’s thirst for blood. When he choked on a piece of lamb, the castle became a prison which three years later, saw every inmate starve to death during a harsh winter. Locals, who all gave the place a wide berth, claimed that madness came over anyone who lingered there too long.

Whether Strucker knew about this when he picked the site for human experimentation will forever remain a mystery. All Tony knows is that not even the Sokovian government wanted it back after HYDRA’s defeat. SHIELD ended up buying it for their own use but even they were quick to abandon it, bothering only with basic maintenance. It remained their most historically valuable storage shed up until the Blip, when priorities shifted and it became a dark footnote in their assets. Time and inclement weather had ravaged the path leading to the main gate and the mountain’s craggy slopes made it dangerous to carve another. As it stood now, it was only accessible to helicopters and birds. And to those very few who could fly.

He drops in through a hole in the roof, where rainwater has worn away the tiles. FRIDAY blinks upon his visor, telling him he is still too far away. The pulsing red dot he is chasing sits very still several floors down which he rushes past in complete darkness. It is only when he sees light pour from the basement that he realizes the place still inexplicably has electricity.

He pushes the door open and is greeted by the buzz of old lightbulbs. They flicker every so often, casting deep shadows over stacks of documents lining a wide table. Behind it, Thor stands transfixed, long hair pulled back in a haphazard knot as he feverishly turns over the pages. A loose strip of cloth falls over his face, poorly concealing an empty eye-socket. His hunched shoulders stand out even more in the yellow glow.

He raises his head when he notices Tony. “Hello, Stark.”

His voice is low but steady. Genuine warmth breaks through a sheen of sickly pallor, but Tony stares straight past it. His attention is focused solely on FRIDAY’s scan, sweeping over Thor as vital signs line up the visor. Blood pressure normal, heart rate normal, breathing...

He snaps out of it when Thor’s gentle smile wavers. “Stark? Are you alright?”

Leave it to Thor to fret about others while looking like he has just crawled out of his grave. Tony shakes his head with a hopeless chuckle and throws him a thumbs up. Every scenario he had conjured up on his way to Sokovia crumbles when he is drawn into such a tight hug that he struggles to stay on his feet. He submits to it for a while, watching the AI tastefully flicker out of sight before pulling the god of thunder closer. There is such relief and exhaustion in his touch, Tony can feel it even under metal-clad hands.

“Hey, sunshine,” he breathes, flipping up his visor. “Jesus Christ, you still know how to keep a man on his toes. I think I burned the new accelerator getting here.”

Thor laughs briefly as he pulls away to place an affectionate hand on his head. “I missed these little talks of ours,” he replies. “You look well.”

Tony is too glad to see him to begrudge another subtle reminder of their height difference. “They say the new model brings out my eyes.” He gestures towards what he is convinced are new scars. “What happened to yours?”

Thor musters up a cryptic sigh. “It’s a long story. Or rather, a very short story, at the end of a lot of long ones.” His hands slide away from Tony’s shoulders. “Frankly, I’m not sure where to start.”

“How about at the beginning?”

“That’s easier said than done.” Thor taps on a stack of dog-eared papers with a pensive look. “Can you pass me that over there? I think it’s the last one in this batch.”

He points to a water-damaged box in the corner. Tony cautiously maneuvers his hand under it, afraid that it will fall apart under its own weight. The table creaks in protest when he lowers it next to its four disheveled twins whose contents lie strewn across the room. The sight reminds him of his old workshop but the realization only manages to reignite his worries. He too was prone to acting ‘scattered’ when he was caught up in a project or when something dark stalked the recesses of his mind. Looking at Thor’s odd stutter-stop movements, he cannot decide whether it is one, the other, or both.

“Have you been here all night?” he asks.

“Is it night already?”

The answer comes through a badly suppressed yawn. Tony frowns as he watches Thor take a swig from a coffee-stained thermos. “It’s seven a.m.,” he replies pointedly. “Can you at least explain why you’re digging around in HYDRA’s old files?”

“I think it will be better if I show you.” Thor wipes off the dust from a dossier and runs a hand through the strands of hair that have escaped the knot. “It might take some time, every computer here is gutted or fried. And some physical copies are not in great condition.”

“Or in German from what I can tell.” Tony leans over, skimming the dense cluster of paragraphs. “Can you even read that? Allspeak or not, it’s all smudged up.”

Thor’s shrug turns into a loud neck crack that does not lift the invisible load from his strained back. “You get used to it after a while. Korg was in charge of our fishing inventory once and he could not get the hang of typing. Once you can read reports by someone with rocks for fingers, you can read anything.” He lets out a soft, nostalgic laugh. “There was that one time when…”

He pauses as if losing his train of thought and blinks sluggishly. Awareness fades from his only surviving eye as the thermos slips through his fingers. He gropes around with clumsy hands, yanking away pages from the path of the dark sludge but the mere act is enough to make him sway. As his faltering balance weakens, Tony rushes to his side and hears him swear under his breath.

“Don’t let it spread,” he mutters. “If it soaks in, not even Allspeak will help.”

His plea peters out as he shakes his head furiously. Soon, even that effort is too much and it hangs limp, eyelids fluttering. He sinks against the power armor for a mere second before he catches himself but Tony’s grasp only grows firmer as he gently eases Thor on a nearby crate. In his chest, a hollow drum comes back to life with renewed intensity.

“Is it this?” He brandishes an empty pill blister like a murder weapon. “How much? How long ago?”

Thor blinks again, gradually regaining his focus. His hand is still unsteady as he takes the blister from Tony. “Too little and long enough. It has mostly worn off by now.” He raises a hand to rub his creasing forehead as embarrassment creeps into his tone. “I’m fine, I just need a moment.”

“Yeah? Then sit your ass down and take one!” Tony clasps a broad shoulder to stop the god of thunder from standing up. His concern is quickly shifting towards anger as he snatches back the blister. “What the hell are you playing at, huh? Do you think these are candy?”

“My visions only come in dreams. So I tried to sleep.”

It is a simple, honest answer. There is not even a hint of defensiveness in it, only defeat so deep that Tony is not sure how to react. Their last encounter at the Compound had not left much room to discuss Thor’s new powers. Discovering his clairvoyance right before an apocalypse must have been a crushing blow so Tony chose not to dwell on it and did his best to listen. He had no way to quell the overwhelming guilt in the mismatched eyes, only to mirror its hopelessness. Years ago, the Mind Stone had also granted him a grim vision he had been incapable of preventing. In that regard, they are a perfect match, made in a particularly cruel hell.

As silence claims more and more space between them, he can only ask. “What did you see?”

Thor lowers his chin in cupped hands. “I haven’t seen anything in years” he replies in a penitent tone. “Even regular dreams are beginning to disappear. No matter how hard I try, I see absolutely nothing.” He sinks his fingers in his hair, staring numbly at the pages spread over the room. “Brunnhilde was right, I should have stayed with them. I wasted so much time and wound up right where I started.”

His poor substitute for an eyepatch slides to the floor as the blond head hangs low between the broad shoulders. Tony picks it up, trying his best not to evaluate the faded scars on the left side of Thor’s face. He wants to bury him in a million questions and yet cannot help but think back to when he returned to Earth, weak and wounded, with nothing but bad news and a hollow sense of futility. He and Thor had crossed empty looks from across the Compound’s briefing room as Steve and the rest of the team buried him in their own questions. He could only wish he had any hope to give them.

If that is Thor right now, he has nothing but sympathy for him.

“No place like home, right?” he ventures weakly only to discard his levity and rub a comforting hand across Thor’s back. “I’m sorry, sunshine. I should have been there for you. I wasn’t in a very good place myself, but for what it’s worth, I’m here now. So if you need...”

He trails off as he realizes the blue eye is looking past him. Slowly, Thor rises from the crate and walks towards a pile of documents to pick up a few that have escaped the coffee dripping through the cracks on the table. Despite the low quality of the picture at the top of the page, Tony has no trouble recognizing a very young Wanda Maximoff lying on a metal slab with a semicircular device over her head. Her thin lips, pressed tightly together, might be expressing deep apprehension or holding back a scream.

Thor stares at it for a few moments. When he turns around, he gives Tony a sad, knowing smile.

“I wasn’t there for you either,” he says. “I don’t think I could see anything beyond Asgard for a long while. And then I could not see anything beyond my own grief.” Tony’s attempt to cut him off does not get too far as Thor sits back beside him, with a determined fire burning in his look. “We both did the best we could, Stark. There is no ill will between us so let there be no regret. Because right now, I really need your help.”

* * *

“I cannot teach you.”

Aelva's back is turned as she gives her verdict. For a few hopeful seconds, Thor waits for a condition or a caveat. Instead, she raises a withered arm and deposits a flame at the end of a long matchstick into a bowl of incense. A wisp of indigo smoke drifts lazily towards the vaulted ceiling followed by a flowery smell. Though Thor's memories of Vanir ceremonies are vague, he remembers enough to understand she is purifying the Prayer Chamber for a service. This could not be a clearer invitation for him to leave.

He does not and leans against a painted column, struggling to readjust to his newly-halved field of vision. "I don't understand, you just said that I have the gift. What more do you need to see?"

Aelva moves towards the next bowl and repeats the procedure with the same calm demeanor. She turns her head only for a moment before pressing the matchstick against a plate of hot coals. "Potential, Odinson,” she sighs. “Something that gives me any reason to believe I will not be wasting my time. So far, I have seen none of that."

"Then I beg you to look harder!"

His exclamation is nearly cut short as something dull and heavy thuds across his temples. If the priestess is aware of him wincing in pain, she does not show it as she maneuvers another tongue of orange fire into a bowl. It casts a long shadow and when Thor glances through the half-open windows, he notices the golden sunlight has faded. The air that seeps through the staves blows colder with every second as is the wind bending a grove of saplings in the garden. The Vanir autumn could be a capricious season, when summer heat would bleed into the early hours, only to peter out when the sun reached its highest point. Judging by the bleak, copper rays barely breaking through the overcast sky, that time is well past.

Uneasiness tightens its grip over his chest. He had been fighting a losing battle against disorientation ever since he opened his eyes in a windowless room with a herbal drink by his side and a loose bandage over his head. How long has he been out, he wonders. Three hours? Maybe more?

He blinks the pulsing headache away and turns to the priestess refilling a bird-feeder beside the altar. "I understand how this is unorthodox," he says. "Vanir seers start much younger, but..."

A scolding laugh silences him. "You come here to learn, yet you lecture me on my own craft. You might see how that does not fill me with confidence." She blows out the fire and peers into him through a cloud of vanishing smoke. "If you must know, age has nothing to do with it. Would you teach a goat to play the harpsichord just because it walked across the keys once and played Ode to a New Dawn?"

Thor's breath catches in his throat halfway through his rebuttal. She might as well have punched him in the gut, which does nothing for his eloquence. "Aelva, please, all I want is..."

He stops, horrified at the fact that he has forgone her title. Displeasure flashes across her face but she does not give him the chance to rectify, or to dig himself deeper. "I could not care less about what you want. This gift may live within you but it is not yours. A traitor brought it to Asgard a long time ago and that is why it rebels against you." She slides the last grains into the feeder and flicks dry husks off her hands. "Tell me, did your mother ever explain why she rarely returned my visits? Despite her Vanir heritage? Despite knowing she could perfect her skills among her true peers?"

Thor cannot tell if it is disappointment or grief which tightens the skin over her cheekbones. She clearly expects an answer so he gives her the only one he has. "She did not like to talk about it. I assumed it had something to do with my father. I know he did not approve of your friendship."

Aelva rolls her eyes towards the white cloth lining the vault. "He tolerated me, as long as we did not test each other’s patience. And as long as I did not overstay my welcome." She points at something behind Thor’s back. "Do you know who that is?"

Thor turns around and finds himself staring into the deep, green eyes or a portrait. Its colors are muted in the glow of the aging sun and it takes him a few seconds to realize it is embroidered with a thin, silk-like thread. The young woman upon it wears a silver crown and a green dress than complements the red hair flowing over her shoulders. Though she bears the benevolent countenance all royal families are depicted with, her artist leaned away from the usual conventions and let some personality slip through. The woman's faint smile is as enigmatic as it is strangely menacing. It is one Thor has seen many times before, replicated with varying degrees of accuracy in history books.

"Mylda the Brave," he replies. "Queen Cevrenne's grandmother."

Aelva gives him an understated nod. "Very headstrong woman,” she says, “Made many nobles furious and many others hungry to share her power. People like Niord Zylric, Lord of the Western Isles. That would be your grandfather." She pauses, taking in Thor's stunned silence with her own faint smile. "Let me guess, you never heard about him before."

Thor shakes his head. He feels dazed, like he is reeling from a concussion as the pain in his empty socket spikes. Though he could recount Bor's entire reign, a part of him wonders why he never asked about his mother’s side of the family. The answer is bound to be unflattering so he shelves it for a quieter time, praying he will not have to wait forever.

The priestess warms her hands over the dimming coals. "Niord was a very influential figure. He held domain over two hundred fishing villages and was never short on money or resources. Both, he put frequently at her majesty’s disposal, under a mutual agreement that it would earn him a place on the council. Can you guess what happened next?"

"He did not get one?"

"Wrong, but his ambition far exceeded his grasp. He was expecting to be her right-hand man and was granted a lesser position.” She lets out a humorless chuckle. “You know what happens when a man does not get what he thinks he is owed."

Thor does not reply. It is probably for the best since Aelva does not wait for an answer. "Niord tried to orchestrate a coup against the queen. Fortunately for her, he was lousy at intrigue. When he was found out, he was set for execution but at the last moment, Mylva chose to show mercy. Instead, she stripped him of his title and exiled him from Vanaheim."

"Is that how he wound up on Asgard?"

"There was nowhere else to go. His wife Veena was a sorceress and after her husband’s treason, she lost her place in the Circle. Asgard was the only realm that would offer them sanctuary in exchange for her skill." Her eyes look past Thor into a memory he cannot reach. "We grew up together so I visited her quite often. I was there when Niord died and when her baby was born. I was also there when Frigga discovered her second-sight."

Silence falls between them again. It is interrupted when a draft travels across the chamber and blows out the incensed smoke. With a low sigh, Aelva stirs up the darkening lumps of coal and dips a new matchstick into the sparks, resuming her slow walk across the chamber.

"A talent this strong is not common among Vanir women,” she says. “At the time, we all mourned the loss of a gifted bloodline. Voices were raised about restoring the family's status, but Mylva was not swayed. It was only when Frigga grew close to Odin that she changed her mind. None of us wanted Asgard to have a clairvoyant queen.”

A newly kindled flame throws a deep shadow over her face. "As you know, only women can inherit the throne of Vanaheim. Mylva had no daughters so she thought she could solve two problems with one stroke. She was ready to restore Frigga's nobility and have her betrothed to her eldest son. That would eventually make your mother a queen in her own right, not a mere consort. With her gift and our guidance, she could be the greatest one Vanaheim had ever known."

Aelva’s attention lingers on the portrait. There is sorrow in her voice, deep mourning for a lost opportunity Thor knows all too well. "She turned it down, of course. Three times I came to her with the same offer and three times she refused. She told me she cared not for any throne but if she was to sit upon one, it would be beside someone she loved. She said she would rather be a good person than a great queen. Can you believe that?"

Her laugh is hollow as she turns away and begins to lay fresh coal upon a ceremonial plate. A memory echoes in Thor, spreading like a ripple across the still water that shelters his happy memories of Asgard. Ironically, those include his departure as a figure he believes to be Odin speaks words Thor wants to hear. He wonders now if he would have gotten a real reprieve if it had been his mother who bid him farewell. If he had been there to save her like he was supposed to be.

He bows his head before the altar beneath the vaulted ceiling. Though the prayer flickering across his thoughts is Asgardian, he knows his mother would not mind the contradiction.

Aelva's hands weave together in a thoughtful gesture. "I might have pushed her too hard,” she says. “So much, our friendship almost ended. She let me back into her life, eventually, but Odin never forgave me for trying to undermine their union. I had to fight tooth and nail to be there when she was laid to rest." Disdain resurfaces in the silver eyes. "Her love was wasted on him. Just as her gift is wasted on you."

She walks past him towards a narrow cabinet and takes out two worn-down stones. Thor can see her patience drying up and struggles to still his fidgeting hands. "I know," he hurries to reply, “but it is the only thing I have left of her and she would not have wanted it to wither away. If it rebels against me, I will master it. If it eludes me, I will find it again. For as long as I have you to guide me, I swear I will not falter."

She looks at him over her shoulder. "I need no second-sight to know you will fail. All I did was temper your mind and it nearly burst your skull. Do you honestly think you can survive the training?"

"I have survived far worse. Will you at least let me try?"

“I will not!” Something shifts in her expression as strides towards him with a dark twist upon her lips. "You forget that I have looked into your soul. Do you know what I saw?"

Silver eyes burn through him with such intensity that he is tempted to look away. His scattered answer comes out as a sharp gasp when she presses her fingers to his head again and the Prayer Chamber crumbles around him. Thanos's blood is all over his hands, dark and thick as tar. The Titan raises the Gauntlet slowly, so very slowly. The blood-flecked teeth flash a taunting grin and Thor scrambles back from Aelva's touch, as his knees buckle under him.

"Don't..." he croaks. "Please don't! I can't..."

He chokes on the rest of his plea, barely holding back a wave of nausea. Aelva bares her teeth, all pretense forsaken as she grasps his chin. "Oh, but you must! Maybe then you will stop lying to yourself! You know nothing of Niord, yet you behave exactly like him. Coming here to collect debts you are not entitled to! Thinking we should bow to your every demand!”

Thor waits, frozen, for his mind to be split apart again. Instead, Aelva tilts his head up to meet her unforgiving gaze. In the liquid light of the flickering lamps, her shadow on the floor blurs and dissolves into ribbons. A strong magical aura sweeps the Prayer Chamber, rushing over him like an invisible swarm.

"I see your pain, Odinson!” she seethes. “I see it devouring you and I assure you it is not undeserved. Ask yourself, do you really seek to reverse the Calamity? Or do you wish to indulge your guilt long enough to reach atonement? Perhaps you hope the training to scorch your mind so you do not have to live with your sins. Which one is it? Can you even tell?”

She tosses his head aside with a trembling hand. Thor has no strength to respond. He barely has any to look up so he can only hear her footsteps when she resumes her place at the altar. Her dark, distorted reflection upon the floorboards stills, as magic trickles out of the air. He can breathe again, even if he feels like there’s an iron-clad boot upon his chest.

“It matters not,” he hears her say. “I owe you nothing. Not after Odin revoked his protection and ignored us to watch theater. Not after we saw Nidavellir torn apart while he ate grapes on his golden throne.” Her voice cracks as she throws him a bitter sneer. “You said you would shield us from any harm. What is your protection worth if you failed to stop the Calamity? What is your stolen clairvoyance worth if you did not foresee it?”

She strikes the rocks together in a brief fit of rage. A spark sinks among the coals, spreading its faint glow around and as it burns brighter, Thor thinks of the fire that sent his mind aflame the night after Sokovia fell from the sky. The dreams it had birthed were frayed memories by morning but over the past years, they had become a writhing snake pit. He has tried his best not to stir it too much. He knows it would bring nothing but pain.

He cannot stop himself anymore as cold sweat locks his limbs. I did, he thinks through a haze of numb horror. I did foresee it. Thor Odinson, the first clairvoyant Asgardian in the universe and he is still too damn slow on the uptake to save it. Too busy struggling against the waves to see the maelstrom ahead.

Another wave of nausea rises up within him. He tries to stand up but his legs will not obey so he kneels beneath the embroidered portrait, like a broken toy. He is cold again, so very cold and distant as if the world was no more but an illusion woven by the Aether. A phantom of his younger self tugs at him from beyond the veil, reminding him that he ought to feel something. Disappointment in his brother for turning his back on the Nine Realms. Anger at his father for locking away his powers. Even frustration at Aelva for rejecting him. Anything would do to fill the empty void within. Anything would be better than the familiar threat of tears in his eyes.

Words well up within him. He knows he should not speak them aloud. They are as useless as the ramblings of an unwell mind.

They slip out nonetheless. "I'm sorry."

Fury still simmers beneath Aelva’s dispassionate veneer. "Have your wounds been treated?" she asks.

Thor pushes himself to his feet and nods mechanically. "Yes..."

Her mouth sets in a hard line. The coals glow beneath her hands like fireflies trapped in amber. "Then I am sure you can find your way out."

* * *

"Forget it. I can't do this."

Tony regrets his phrasing the moment the words leave his mouth. He regrets his cutting tone even more even though he cannot help it. Every fiber of his being recoils at the god of thunder’s request as he flinches away from what he can only describe as a torture device if the Spanish Inquisition had access to modern technology. The fact that nothing protects it from the leaking roof tells him more than he needs to know. SHIELD has never been shy about appropriating HYDRA’s leftovers and trying to make them work for their own means. But though a magnifying glass could have other uses besides burning down anthills, there was only one very specific use for an iron maiden.

Thor closes his eyes and lets out a controlled breath. He stands still for a while, flipping the pages of a crumpled dossier with an unreadable expression as the light fixtures throw a small fit. His drawn-out silence speaks volumes as does the shadow settled upon his scars. This is not the first time he has heard such an answer. It is the first time he does not expect it.

"Can't or won't, Stark?” he asks. “I’ve come to learn there is a difference."

If it is resentment Thor is going for, it does not come through. He looks too tired for anything but plain honesty and as Tony watches him lean against the wall for support, he feels his heart shrink in his chest. Clearly, the last thing his friend wants is an argument and the last thing Tony wants is to start one. In fact, he would like nothing more than to get him away from this place. It feeds on every drop of light and warmth that lands among its walls and if years in Thor’s company had taught him anything, he was practically made of both.

For the first time in his life, he experiences mild claustrophobia inside the power armor. A waft of cold air runs across his skin as the suit folds away, leaving him free to pace across what must have once been the castle’s dining hall. HYDRA had converted it into a lab and though every monitoring screen is gone, most of their gruesome instruments remain here, covered in grime and dust. The centerpiece of this museum of horror is a rusted helmet hooked to a decaying console, with a metal slab crudely welded underneath. The entire assembly seems to have been discarded quickly and dispassionately as if no one was willing to think too hard about its intended use. The straps of rotting leather that hang from it still bear streaks of dried blood.

A slimy feeling crawls across Tony’s stomach as he turns away. “Doesn’t matter,” he replies. “I’m not touching this thing with a ten-foot pole and neither should anyone else.” He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “What were you thinking to dig it up? Even SHIELD was smart enough to shove it into storage and slam the door.”

Thor rubs the bridge of his nose under the fraying eyepatch. “I know this is hard for you,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask if I had any other choice. Mjolnir suppressed my second-sight for most of my life along with the rest of my powers. Any control I have over it is tenuous and there is no way to know if it will get better. If it does, it may take decades. With half the universe gone, we can’t afford to wait that long.”

Tony blinks. A distant memory of a hot summer day flashes before him, one when he finally convinced Thor to measure the strength of his powers and ended up with his sturdiest equipment scattered in charred pieces across the Grand Canyon. When coherent thought returns to him, he lets out a short, disbelieving laugh.

“Are you telling me you’ve spent all these years with training wheels on?”

Thor gives him a weak smile. “Not by choice, that’s for sure. All I know is that Wanda broke the lock in South Africa when she got in my head. And it’s not like I can ask her to do it again.” He wipes a thick layer of dirt from the main panel hanging above the helmet. “According to Strucker’s logs, they used this to rewire her neural patterns before exposing her to the Mind Stone. It took them months to get where they wanted but we are one step ahead. We already know the kind we are looking for.”

He leaves the dossier on the metal slab with the calm demeanor of a made-up mind. Tony picks it up just to keep his freezing hands occupied as he flips past old blueprints and descriptions of previous experiments. The whole thing reads like an unholy cross between a medical report and an engineering log penned in the most soulless, corporate language. It details a history of trial, error, and death stretching for several months. The helmet, dubbed the Neuroweaver, had been a thorn in HYDRA’s side from the moment of its troubled conception. More often than not, it failed to perform correctly or failed to perform at all, wrecking the subject’s nervous system. The troubleshooting reports go on for at least fifteen pages. Tony feels slightly disturbed when he realizes he knows what the issue was from the very first one.

He can definitely repair it, he thinks as the exploded view of the machine assembles itself in his head. Now that he is looking at it closely, he understands how the pieces fit and how they could fit together better. And he made sure FRIDAY kept a very close eye on Thor when he collapsed at Stark Tower after the battle of Sokovia. There is definitely a detailed record of his brain activity stored somewhere within her data bank. All of a sudden, what Thor is asking him to do sounds a lot more plausible. If he wants to induce a vision, this has a pretty good chance of working out.

He catches himself halfway through figuring out how to integrate FRIDAY’s interface into the console’s mainframe. Unease twists his stomach into knots as he sees his breath become mist in the cold air. It had taken them almost an hour of wandering around damp corridors to find this room and he was not blind to the scratches on the walls left by unmistakably human fingernails. Even now, he cannot shake the sensation that they are being watched or ignore the restless darkness at the corner of his eye. The feeling is not entirely foreign. It had come over him years ago, right before he picked up the Scepter in Strucker’s secret lair.

Maybe there is something to the wild stories floating around this place. Maybe it does drive people to madness. It would be the only explanation for Thor’s twisted proposal. Or for the fact that he is actually starting to consider it.

"No,” he mutters, putting the blueprints back. “No, this is nuts, it’s too dangerous. There has to be another way.”

Thor’s fingers drum an erratic, nervous rhythm on the grimy helmet. “There isn’t,” he says. “I tried everything, I even went back to the Norns. Chased the reflection of the Water of Sight upon every realm but they were silent. Their world is in complete lockdown, I’m not sure if any are left alive.” The plea that cannot make it into his voice rises in the haunted depths of the blue eye. “This machine is my last resort, but I can’t do this without you. I trust no one else to get it right.”

“Then we have a problem because I’m the last person I trust.” Tony flips the dossier open to reveal a picture of prone forms covered by stained, white sheets. “This thing has killed at least a dozen people and that was just during the testing phase. You can’t ask me to throw your corpse on top of that pile."

“Who says you will? Wanda survived. I’m a lot harder to kill than your average human.”

“I never wanted exact metrics on that. And I’m sure as hell not rolling the dice on anything HYDRA’s goblins slapped together!”

He expects Thor to argue back, but instead, watches him grow quiet, blue gaze drifting away. He looks unbelievably worn out by the conversation and suddenly, Tony’s temper cools like hot iron dipped in water. All that is left is the gut-wrenching combination of fear and worry that lingered in his thoughts for years after Thor’s departure from Earth. The same one that had chased him all the way from New Asgard.

He presses cold lips together. Once again, he is proven that knowledge can be futile. He has repeated self-destructive patterns so often, he can spot them at a glance. And yet, he remains powerless against the havoc they wreak in those he holds dear. Whatever advice Tony can offer is a blunt sword in his hands, considering how seldom he follows his own.

He gives it a shot anyway, lowering himself on a chair plagued by years of corrosion. “I know you’re hurting,” he begins tentatively. “Trust me, I’ve been there. Maybe not in the exact same spot but I know what it’s like to see no light at the end of the tunnel.” He struggles to find the right words and wonders if they even exist. “I've… considered drastic options too.”

Thor’s expression clouds as he clasps his shoulder in warm solace. “I’m glad they were only a thought,” he says, “but if you think I’m trying to end my life, you are mistaken. You told me once that every question can be answered by following the scientific method. I’m just trying to test my hypothesis, that’s all.”

An involuntary chuckle escapes Tony’s tight chest. “If your plan was to blind me with science you're not off to a great start. I spoke to Steve yesterday, he said…”

“I can imagine what he said.” Thor glances at the mold-speckled ceiling with a sigh. “He thinks I’m in denial, that I'm running from my feelings somehow. He’s wrong, I’ve done nothing but follow them. All the way to you.”

Tony drops his head in his palm, stifling a groan. He has not heard sincerity like that in ages and it takes a while to process even as his worry for the god of thunder mounts with every passing second. “That’s touching and all, but the next thing you did was ask me to cook your brain like a cheap steak. That raises a few questions about your mental state.” He breathes warm air on his fingers and goes in for the kill. “What happened? At the support group.”

Thor’s shoulders tense up as he shifts in place. He seems to go over several drafts in his mind, before settling on a subtle shrug. “Nothing, I was just the wrong fit for it. Everyone I knew died before the Blip and they did not need to hear about the slaughter on the Statesman. There is enough tragedy on Earth as it is.”

Tony spends the next seconds battling a red veil over his eyes. His victory is only partial as a low growl still slips into his voice. “That’s bullshit,” he retorts through a clenched jaw. “You wouldn't be trying to put yourself in some prophetic seizure over nothing. Steve should have known better than to drag you there. Hell, anyone would have known better than that.”

“I made my decision long before I returned to Earth. If anything, the group helped me see that this was the only right path.”

“That's not how it’s supposed to work. You know that right?”

The question sinks into a deep pit of silence as Thor’s hands weave into a tight knot over his knees. He seems to have given up on any answer, looking at the rusted helmet with a grim determination that makes Tony’s heart drop to his feet. Talking people out of risky ideas has never been his strong suit. Most of the time he is on the opposite side of that argument and the irony is not lost on him as he walks over to the console and sits beside the god of thunder.

“Thor,” he calls out. “Look at me, sunshine. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to throw your life away for some nebulous long shot you don’t even know exists. You’re going for the scientific method? Sometimes in science, you have to cut your losses. Especially when you’re likely to cause irreparable harm to your test subject.”

He is met by a long, earnest stare. “You said Strange saw over fourteen million futures on Titan. If there was one where we won, don’t you want to know how?”

“We missed that chance a long time ago. What would you gain from torturing yourself like that?” Tony puts an arm around Thor’s unnaturally hunched back. “Listen, I don’t know what happened in these two years but you’re obviously at the end of your rope. You’re exhausted, you’re not thinking straight. I can’t think of any good decision I’ve ever made in that state.” He glances towards the lab door gaping into a dark hallway. “We can just walk away right now and forget we ever saw this place. God knows that’s what everyone else has done.”

For a solid minute, Thor is an immobile, pensive statue. He looks past Tony, past every grotesque creation in the room, his chest rising and falling steadily under the armor. There’s an odd serenity to his movements as he rises up from the metal slab and takes a few deliberate steps across the room. Just as Tony is beginning to hope he might consider his offer, Thor turns around to prove him wrong.

“It was their eyes,” he says and his voice is a fading storm. “I’ve been halfway across the galaxy and everywhere I went I saw those eyes. That room where Steve’s group meets? There are hundreds of them on every planet. Millions upon millions of people trying to keep going and not one of them knows how. Not one of them has forgotten or made peace with anything. Have you?”

A chill rushes up Tony’s spine. The blue gaze rests upon him again and as it does, he knows he is going to lose this fight. He never had a chance to begin with, ever since he heard Thor call his name on the snowy hill beside the half-frozen cabin. This must be karma, he thinks in dismay. Bruce probably felt the same way when Tony roped him into helping with Ultron.

“I haven’t,” he admits. “Not even close.”

Thor gives him a resolute nod as if he barely needed the confirmation. “Then you know why I called you here,” he says. “I’ve heard people from all over the universe talk about moving on. World leaders, priests, soldiers doing everything they can to keep their worlds turning. They tell everyone to rebuild their lives, to find some kind of acceptance, and when they turn away, you see the exact same look upon their faces.” He lets a short pause hang in the air and shakes his head. “I refuse to accept anything, Stark. I’m tired of seeing those eyes. Call it denial, delusion, anything you want. But the truth is that they deserve their loved ones back. And as long as I’m alive, I will never stop trying to find a way.”

“This is still the worst plan I’ve heard in years, Point Break. What am I supposed to tell the rest of the team if anything happens to you? What am I supposed to tell New Asgard?”

“That I tried everything in my power to heal the universe. And so did you.”

Tony sinks his fingers in his hair as he casts a helpless look at the Neuroweaver. He did not just hear that, he thinks through a list of necessary tools already lining up in his head. Thor did not just say those exact words with a straight face. These things did not happen outside of fiction and with any other person, the speech would have prompted cynical laughter. But Thor was chronically allergic to irony. Whatever was on his mind, he always spoke with no reservations. Which is why in this room, under cold, flickering lights, his words bring certainty and reassurance despite the grim task ahead. They bring hope even as he shudders at the prospect of digging into the specifics of the device he is now determined to rescue from HYDRA’s junkyard.

He now understands how an Asgardian settlement was established so quickly in Norway. For a man who walked away from a throne twice, Thor could be dangerously convincing. Maybe it was good that he had deferred to Cap during his time with the Avengers. He could have been a force to be reckoned with.

Then again, Tony had once expressed a firm desire to punch Steve in his perfect teeth. With Thor, things tended to take a different turn.

He rubs his chin, trying to recall the time difference between them and New York. “You hungry?”

Thor’s eyebrows perk up in surprise. He looks hesitant or maybe struck speechless so Tony takes the answer upon himself. “You look like you could use a decent meal. I know a place near where Bruce lives now. Best eggs in the county and, let me tell you, the competition is tight.”

He taps the triangular plate upon his chest and straightens up. The power armor closes over him in a protective cocoon as FRIDAY’s scan glides over the dossier, translating every page into thousands of pixels. He is tempted to incinerate it after the process is complete but holds himself back. Though SHIELD and the Avengers have been keeping on friendly terms with one another, he does not want to leave traces of their uninvited presence.

“If we’re going to do this, I am bringing Bruce into it,” he clarifies as Thor’s confusion appears to be reaching critical mass. “I’m a gearhead and he has bio-organics on lock. We’re going to need both to iron out HYDRA’s screw-ups.”

The scan fades, its process complete. A few seconds later, it blinks back into existence as it sweeps over the Neuroweaver. A three-dimensional model of the machine appears before him, etched in blue light, with the most important sections marked in red. Tony waits for FRIDAY to confirm safe storage and makes a mental note to delete the most grisly pictures. If there was a voice of reason among the Avengers, Bruce would be the one holding all the ballots, while looking none too pleased about it.

“More importantly,” he adds, “He’s the only one on the team who ever set foot in medical school.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, our heroes are off to another hair-brained (hehe) scheme. Hopefully, it goes better than Ultron.
> 
> As always, if you liked it, please leave a comment. It makes my heart flutter and my fingers fly faster. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, this fic is a four-parter now. Sorry guys, the conclusion kind of got away from me but I promise I'm working on the final part. Good news is, I seem to have gotten in the habit of updating every three months. Hopefully, that streak holds up.

“I. Am. Dead.”

With a dramatic flourish and a heavy sigh, Darcy collapses on the grass, strategically missing a tight cluster of rocks. Dandelion seeds swarm where she lands, blanketing her face that is beginning to turn pink in the summer heat. She wrinkles her nose, bats at the white fluff, and fumbles the side-pockets of her backpack, which rises nearly as tall as her. She pulls out her phone right as the bulk loses its precarious balance on the ground and tumbles over her stomach, drawing out an impotent grunt.

Beside her, Erik Selvig leans against a mossy boulder and wipes sweat off his forehead. The streaks of dried sunscreen on his cheeks crinkle in a wide grin. “I haven’t seen many corpses that were chronically online. I think you’ll live.”

Darcy’s irregular sunburn scrunches into an expression that begs for a second opinion. “Nah, I’m pretty sure I’m dead. It’s just taking a while to catch up to me.” She plucks some pebbles from under her back and lets a ladybug crawl up her wrist towards the cloudless void of the sky. “I thought you said this mountain was for beginners!”

“I also said there was a steep learning curve.” Selvig gulps from a crumpled water bottle, still a bit winded. “Good thing we took the easiest path to the top. Some college kids tried going up the southern side last summer. Nearly cost them their graduation.”

“This might cost me mine.” The ladybug takes flight as Darcy sits up and wrestles her sun-bleached hair into a ponytail. “So what's with the sudden interest in nature? Or was this a very well kept secret?”

"Neither, it runs in the family. My parents met on a hiking trail, there’s no unbeaten path in Norway they haven’t explored.” The scientist settles deeper under the meager shade of an elderberry bush with a look of blissful exhaustion. “They took me on my first climbing trip when I was seven. I was sitting right here when I first looked at the night sky and fell in love with the stars. I’ve even taken a few girlfriends here, trying to capture that same magic.” He smiles at the slight but telling rise of thin eyebrows. “That probably explains why I’m still single.”

“That and the garden gnome collection. I swear those things change places when you’re not looking.” Darcy tilts her head in exasperation, sliding cheap sunglasses over her eyes. “We seriously need to get you some dating advice.”

“It’s way too late for that. Some things just aren’t meant to be.” Selvig takes off a frayed baseball cap, letting the wind comb through his receding hair. “Either way, this place has always been special to me. I like to share it with people I care about and hope they stick around afterwards.”

“I think we’ll pass your test with flying colors.” Darcy yawns and rolls over, stretching like a cat on a sunbeam. “Speaking of, I can’t believe you didn’t bring Mew-Mew. We could have made the trip in seconds.”

Gray eyes glance at Thor upside down through tinted lenses. He can only chuckle as he stares at the glorious landscape spreading far below the ridge, ready to be captured by a skilled artist. The tallest peak they are now standing on overlooks a vast, green valley, soaked in sunlight and split in half by the shimmering band of a river. If he listens closely, he can hear the hundreds of streams feeding it, rushing over the rocks as they cascade from the craggy mountains. It makes him realize how rarely he has the chance to appreciate Midgard’s natural beauty without wind whipping across his face.

Mjolnir always seems in such a hurry to get to their destination. It pulls at him with a hungry, relentless drive, as if there is a battle to be fought every time Thor’s fingers wrap around its handle. Sometimes, it takes him a while to remember that there isn’t. There have been no battles in his life for a long time.

Perhaps that is why he is so restless, he thinks in dismay. He has known nothing but war for so long that a peaceful moment feels alien. It is a warning bell letting him know something has gone horribly wrong. And even now, in the company of close friends, amidst one the most breathtaking sights on the planet, he has no idea how to quiet its incessant toll.

He readjusts the bandana the wind keeps threatening to rip off his head. “Where would be the fun in that?” he says. “Look at this view! Don’t you think walking up here was worth it?”

“The view doesn’t change if we cheat a little bit. I failed every science class ever and even I know the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”

She sounds close to indignant and Thor almost feels bad for teasing her. “But this way you earned it. Don’t you feel accomplished?”

The girl’s peeling nose twitches under the remains of puffy seeds still caught in the bridge of her glasses. “My eyelids hurt, Thor. I didn’t even know I had relevant muscles there. I promise you won’t tarnish my accomplishment if you summon the hammer to get us down.” She throws a pleading look at Jane. “Talk some sense into him, please. He listens to you.”

Her confidence seems to take a hit as Jane rocks her hand with a sly quirk on her lips. Darcy huffs in resignation and walks away to wrestle with the collapsible tent strapped to her backpack. Her efforts last all of two minutes before she gets distracted and snaps more pictures of their disorganized campsite, pondering the right angle with the determination of a scholar. As the breeze sweeps the assembly instructions over the edge of the mountain, Thor hears Jane stifle a laugh into his shoulder.

“What’s on your mind?” she asks, turning to face him. “You’ve hardly said a word in the past hour.”

Thor lets out a long sigh and puts his arm around her. Summer is a lot kinder on Jane than on the rest of the group. It turns her skin the same shade as her eyes which stare up at him inquisitively. “Nothing interesting,” he replies. “I think I’m just tired.”

“I doubt that, we were all trailing behind you on the last trek.” She smirks and takes a sip from her water bottle. “Have you heard back from Asgard?”

Thor nods, watching her fiddle with the cap. There’s a silver band around her ring finger where a pale-blue Starstone catches the midday sun. It has been less than a week since he has given it to her and the fact that she said ‘yes’ with no hesitation still brings a warm glow to his thoughts. Her head rests against his arm, drowning out the pangs of guilt that follow every time he allows himself to feel content. For a moment, he chides himself for ruining his own chances of marital bliss. His duty to Asgard, to the Nine Realms is fulfilled. He is free, he can stay here, with her, for as long as he wishes.

“Heimdall wishes us both everlasting happiness,” he says. “So do Sif and the rest. They promised they would drop by in a few days to repeat it in person.”

“What about your father?” He expects the question but has no good answer. His silence must have spoken louder than he intended when Jane’s mouth presses into a soft line. “That bad?”

“I don’t know. He has not said a word to me ever since I first brought up our union.” Jane’s silence, in turn, makes him so anxious, his thoughts tumble out of his mouth haphazardly. “It matters not. My choice is made and so is yours. My father will have to come to terms with it one way or another.”

He knows his reassurance is wasted before he finishes speaking. A glint crosses her eyes, one that is reserved exclusively for the current king of Asgard. “For his sake, I hope he is quick about it. Otherwise, by the time he deigns to show up, he might be meeting his grandkids.” 

For a moment, Thor is struck speechless. Jane winks and leans forward to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Slender fingers tangle in his hair, sending a shiver down his spine. When she pulls away, she is holding a wilted cloverleaf between her index and thumb. 

“Maybe you should try talking to him after we get back,” she says with a grin. “Looks like it’s your lucky day.”

Thor lets out a low hum. It takes him a few seconds to make the connection as he notices four leaves instead of the usual three, clinging to the remains of a twisted stem. “I heard about these. Aren’t they one in millions?”

“I wouldn’t say that. They aren’t even one in a single million.” She smooths out the battered leaves with a thoughtful look. “They are uncommon, sure, but we wouldn’t be finding them all the time if they were that rare. The universe is a lot more generous than we assume.”

She opens her palm and the leaf surges up, bounding along a stream of cold air that quietly seeps into the warmth of late July. Thor nods, assuming she is right as usual. His knowledge of four-leaf clovers comes mostly from Steve assuring the Avengers that shamrocks and not their more unusual variations were the symbol of Ireland. Judging from his annoyed expression, this was a mistake he had spent his entire life correcting. Thor could only sympathize, given how many people still insisted on calling him a Viking.

Still, curiosity piques at him through misremembered Internet searches and travel guide articles. “Then why do so many people think they are?”

“Who knows? Maybe they stop looking after they’ve found one.” Her face falls all of a sudden, eyes narrowed against the sun. “Where’s Erik?”

It is only now that Thor notices that the lively conversation behind them has died down. He turns around to find Selvig and Darcy gone, their equipment strewn across the grass under a blizzard of dandelion fluff. The tent they were figuring out together lies crumpled, flapping like a misshapen bird with a broken wing. Darcy’s brand new phone lies stuck between two rocks, its last picture frozen upon the screen. A large spider crack disfigures the valley captured at an odd, slanted angle.

“Did they go down without us?” he asks but Jane does not answer as she scrambles to her feet, calling out for their friends with increasing panic. Her eyes widen in horror when she ventures a cautious look down the craggy slope and Thor’s heart stops. They could not have fallen off. He would have heard something. They both would have.

He is about to join Jane’s frantic search when a cold hand grips his heart and stops him dead in his tracks. It is not dandelion seeds that are settling on his hands, but ashes. Thin, gray ashes that cling to him with every step and leave traces of sickening warmth on his skin. In his mind, the warning bell grows deafening.

“Thor…”

His name sounds hollow in Jane’s mouth. She awkwardly stumbles away from the edge, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and betrayal. He can only stare back, locked in a dream-like stupor, while the same gray ash that fills the air pours from her fingers, her nose, her mouth. Life bleeds away from her eyes long before she is nothing but a pile of dust at his feet. As the gathering wind carries her away, he is left alone at the top of the mountain with no one but the open sky to hear him scream.

* * *

The same scream is caged in his throat when he wakes up.

It rings in his head with crazed, hopeless desperation, one he has only encountered on the battlefield when a deadly weapon found its mark. What actually escapes his chest is a voiceless croak that scrapes his vocal cords like sandpaper. He bolts up, struggling to draw in air, and is immediately pushed back with unexpected force. The impulse to break himself free is only quelled by the steady purr of an engine which ushers in a stream of disjointed recollections. 

A seatbelt. He’s in Tony’s car. On Midgard. 

Home.

The realization makes him feel foolish as he blinks away a sharp sting in his eyes. Dreams have been a rarity for him in the past two years and the few that stuck around merely taunted him with his own failures. This time, however, the numb familiarity of grief gives way to anger turned inward like a sacrificial blade. He had come back to Earth with a clear purpose and here is is, letting his mind wander across better times when his biggest worry was his father’s opinion of Jane. How can he trust himself to find a reversal to Thanos’s massacre if he cannot keep his thoughts in the present?

Then again, he thinks through a haze of shame, the golden shadow of the past is not on his side either. He remembers that day well. It is a warm memory that he still treasures, but the heavenly vision his subconscious had woven must have been a four-leaf clover hidden in the field of the million futures that unfolded before Stephen Strange on Titan. There was no ring on Jane’s finger then, no jokes about children. They had lain on the grass by each other’s side, worn-out but happy, laughing about inconsequential things and making plans they both knew were far-fetched. Two days from then, she got a call from a university in Canada and hopped on a plane to spend six months on an investigation that would someday earn her a Nobel prize. Three days after that, JARVIS located the Chitauri Scepter in Sokovia, and the restless feeling that would not let him be on that sunny afternoon paid off. A week later, they were saying goodbye to each other for good amidst choked tears. Soon he was off to Xandar, where his hopes to find the Infinity Stones in a quick fashion were thoroughly dashed. Everywhere he went, he arrived too late to be of any use.

Perhaps that is why Jane falls to dust in his dreams. She is yet another name on a long list of people he failed to protect. 

Was she awake when it happened, he wonders against his better judgment. Was she aware of what was happening to her? Was it painful?

He drops his face in his hands trying to stem the downward spiral of his thoughts. In the driver’s seat, Tony stops humming along to the radio and turns towards him with a subtle smile. 

“Look who’s finally awake,” he chuckles. “You’ve been out since we left the diner, I was starting to suspect Ed had put something in your food.” His carefree tone fades as he turns down the dial, silencing the low strumming of a guitar. “Hey, hey... what’s wrong?”

Thor’s attempt to answer does not get very far. He tries again but the black band across his chest is suddenly too tight, pinning him against the seat like an iron slab. “Nothing,” he croaks and swallows a hard lump in his throat. “Keep your eyes on the road, Stark. It’s pouring.”

Tony shrugs knowingly at the thick curtain of rain sliding down the windshield. The wipers do their best to keep up with it as the narrow road swims in and out of sight. “I know, it’s been like that for hours. FRIDAY’s got it under control, I’m mostly here to keep up appearances and to stop the cops from freaking out.” He looks away only for a second before he is eyeing him with growing suspicion. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re shaking pretty bad.”

Thor can feel himself nodding as he instinctively lowers his hands on his knees. He is freezing all of a sudden, despite the leather armor and the thin sheen of sweat gathering on his skin. “I’m fine,” he mutters and gestures at the band across his shoulder. “Can I take this off? My fingers are going numb.”

He does not wait for a confirmation and fumbles for the red fastener holding him in place. It takes him three attempts to give up as his grip twists into a stiff, useless claw. Darkness floods his peripheral vision and he wonders if his dream has decided to string him along for a little bit longer. Maybe that is why he cannot move anymore and his breath hitches more painfully with every second.

Tony frown deepens at the end of a long, narrowing tunnel. In the washed-out evening light, his face is quickly becoming a blur but the firm hand clasping his arm is undeniably real. “Thor?” he hears him call out. “Thor, listen to me. You’re having a panic attack. I’m going to take the seatbelt off but I need to pull over first. Hold on.”

He feels the car slow down and drift gently to the left. The moment the engine dies, there’s a click and the fastener zips past his ear. The uncomfortable pressure in his chest lets up but not nearly as much as he expects, which only manages to shrink his field of vision further. The windows slide down, letting in the cold, moist air. After a few seconds, the car door beside him flies open and his ears fill with the soft, rustle of rain.

“There, that should do it,” Tony’s voice is calm, but there’s a troubled edge to it as his face hovers in front of Thor’s surviving eye. “Alright, sunshine, I need you to take nice, deep breaths. Count to five to breathe in, then five to breathe out. Can you do that?”

With a dark numb cloud closing in on him, Thor isn’t sure if he can fulfill even such a simple request. Nevertheless, he does his best, counting down the seconds through the droning hum of traffic until feeling returns to his limbs, and the air he greedily gulps tastes fresh and sweet. The world behind the windshield slowly unfolds back into a murky picture flanked by thinning trees whose sorry shapes are barely visible in the torrential downpour. Far above, a formless mass of clouds shifts on a leaden sky, like a lumbering beast roaring into the void. As he blinks, trying to get his scattered thoughts under control, distant lightning blinks back.

Sunlight never seems to last whenever he is around.

He turns towards Tony, still watching him closely from the driver’s seat. “Where are we?” he asks to test his voice.

Brown eyes linger on him before they skim the screen installed over the radio. “One of the secondary roads. We got turned around ten miles ago, the main highway is closed off. Some smartass crashed a truck full of bees and unleashed pandemonium.” He shushes in gentle disapproval at Thor’s meek attempt to push himself upright. “Easy, easy, don’t try to rush it. Just focus on breathing. Everything else can wait a little bit longer.”

The voice is like a balm on a bleeding wound so he complies with a long, shuddering sigh. Tony’s hand is back on his shoulder, a soothing, non-intrusive presence that does more to calm the storm inside his mind than the carefully measured breaths. He cannot feel the warmth of his touch through the armor but the mere gesture reminds him how long he has gone without contact that did not precede violence. For a moment, he allows himself to enjoy it, as he breathes in the faint scent of ozone mixed with the wet, earthy smell of the forest. It folds around him like a blanket, teasing out feelings he thought forgotten. Feelings he thought he would never experience again after the fall of Asgard.

He really is home.

He leans against the headrest, brushing a few stray raindrops away from his face. “It’s alright,” he says, relieved that he no longer sounds foreign to his own ears. “I’m alright. It was just a dream. It didn’t mean anything.”

He gets a skeptical look in response. There is a question brimming in Tony’s eyes which never surfaces as his hand rests against Thor’s forehead. “You’re cold. I don’t remember last time you felt cold to me.” He reaches past him, towards the back seat and drags over a large parka that smells of smoke and dried leaves. The thick, wooly material covers Thor’s chest, draping over his knees as Tony’s fingers fiddle with the seat mechanism. “I’m going to recline the back, just to keep your feet up. Okay?”

He doesn’t have a chance to follow through before Thor slowly but firmly moves his hand aside. “There’s no need,” he insists. “Really, Stark, I think I’m better. We should keep moving. It’s going to get dark soon.”

He locks the seatbelt back in place and closes the door, shutting out the persistent mutter of rain. Tony seems hesitant but eventually, he relents and turns the key in the ignition. “There’s water in the glove compartment,” he comments as the engine sputters back to life. “Some dark chocolate too. That should help if you’re still dizzy.”

Thor nods and opens the small hatch to pull a plastic bottle. He only realizes how parched he is after he finishes it whole and his head stops swimming. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never had it get this bad.”

Tony’s lips tighten as he tugs at the worn cuffs of his winter jacket. A restrained, burdened emotion seeps into his answer while his fingers fly over FRIDAY’s screen. “Don’t be. I had these damn attacks for months after New York and it only got worse after Titan. You’re allowed to be human, Point Break. You’re in good company on Earth.”

Thor’s conceding smile is short-lived as the car parts the heavy rain like a prow, rejoining the steady stream of traffic. Now that the words ‘autopilot engaged’ glow under FRIDAY’s logo, the screen has switched from a map to a slow-moving slideshow. Pepper’s green eyes stare at him from behind a wooden table as the morning sun rises behind her, bathing the rustic kitchen in orange and cinnamon tones. She beams, holding an unfinished sweater, clearly intended for a newborn, at the end of long, knitting needles. He realizes whose accomplishment she is so proud of when he spots a magazine with knitting patterns tucked away in the recesses of the glove compartment.

Fresh guilt nudges him as he recalls their conversation at the diner over the best scrambled eggs he has ever tasted. “It’s not just that. I’m sorry for dragging you into my personal mess. You have a wife, a kid on the way.”

Tony sighs, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel before he lets go of it entirely. “This is personal to all of us. I’d like my kid to grow up in a world where half of the planet isn’t dead. If I can give her that, I could die happy. Of old age, if I can help it.”

“What did you tell Pepper?”

“That I’m off to aid the god of thunder on a vision quest. Trust me, it’s not the weirdest thing she’s heard from me. It’s not even in the top ten.”

“Is she going to be alright on her own?”

Tony rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his amusement. “She’s pregnant, sunshine, not sick. And she hates people hovering over her like he’s about to explode.” He reaches into the glove compartment to tear a strip of chocolate off a half-finished bar. “Besides, she was planning to take some time to herself, anyway. Her sister runs a spa in New Jersey, they haven’t seen each other in months. She deserves a few weeks of peace, quiet, and mud baths. Morgan might even come out with a knack for pottery.”

He snaps the strip in half and hands one of them over. Thor pauses in delight, relishing the bittersweet taste nothing in the Nine Realms can match. “Or for music,” he adds. “Didn’t Pepper play violin in college?”

“She still does. Sometimes I hear her serenading the birds on Sunday mornings.” Tony reclines, eyes fixed on the headliner where a digital clock ticks away the minutes. “My mother was fond of music too. She tried to teach me piano but I was born completely tone-deaf. I guess only the women in this family are blessed with the artistic gene.”

“I thought you said there was art in engineering.” He snickers when he is met by a slight head-tilt in the mirror, one that admits defeat only on a technicality. “I honestly can’t wait to meet Morgan. She’s going to be an interesting child.”

Tony rubs his creasing forehead with a look of mild distress. “I don’t know what to tell you. Considering how I turned out, she’d better be the most unremarkable person in the world. She’ll get into a lot less trouble and I’ll keep my sanity for much longer.” He touches the autopilot screen and a picture of Happy and Rhodey dissolves, replaced by their route etched in pixels along a winding road. “You can get some more sleep if you want. FRIDAY says we’ve got at least two more hours to go.”

Thor runs his hand over the blind side of his face. Truth be told, he feels exhausted but the prospect of closing his eyes again, even for a few minutes is daunting. “I’ve been sleeping too long lately,” he replies. “How about you tell me about what’s been happening on Earth? I must have missed out on a lot in two years.”

“You’ve been traveling all over the galaxy and you want to hear about Earth?” A quirk touches Tony’s lips at his quiet confirmation. “Okay, but I’m warning you. It’s going to be no match for whatever dark matter smelting they have discovered on Nidavellir.”

Thor settles back in his seat as he watches him pull out his phone to scroll through a long list of headlines. Outside, the indigo clouds are blending with the darkening band of the sky that stretches between the trees and spreads towards the fading horizon. He can hear the wind whisper to him through the branches and realizes the rain has stopped. The hulking beast roaring in the sky only a minute ago has skulked away into the night, leaving behind a lingering catharsis and the kind of peace he has not known in years.

He prays for it to last. He knows it cannot. But he will take every second while he can get it.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says with a soft smile. “It’s home.”

* * *

Night wraps tight around the car when Tony pulls up to what he calls Candyland 2.0.

The parking lot is smaller than he remembers. The illumination fixtures lining the ground show enough room for four cars to fit comfortably but the smooth concrete soon becomes gravel beset with rebel blades of grass. He had initially planned to expand it as the construction of the main building was wrapping up before realizing it would be a waste of money. Bruce and Helen were the only ones with any use for a highly specialized bioengineering facility and most of the time, Helen was not willing to relocate her entire team to a remote location outside of New Jersey. Bruce had joked that this was the most expensive gift he had ever gotten but as months went on, Tony began to question whether the place did more harm than good. It had become Bruce’s main base of operations even before the Blip and had him leading the life of a recluse, sometimes for months on end. Now, it seemed like Tony had just given him an extra big place to isolate himself from the grim reality of a halved world. None of them needed any additional help with that.

He kills the engine and scrolls through a long list of missed calls. When he looks up from the phone, he finds Thor’s worried look.

“Any luck?” he asks.

Tony shakes his head with a disheartened hum. “I left him three voice messages already. Honestly, this just confirms he’s here. I don’t know why he still pays rent for that apartment, he might as well move to the third floor. There’s room for the whole team and he wouldn’t have to keep dodging potholes on his way home.”

Thor nods, eyeing the wide, speckled dome that rises over the roof of the lab like a half-moon. “Does he spend a lot of time in there?”

“Yeah, you know Bruce. He has a habit of going on lockdown for weeks and reappearing several pounds lighter to devour everything on sight.” Tony steps out of the car and fishes out a small hot sauce packet that had somehow found its way under the brake pedal. “Who do you think told me about Ed’s joint?”

“Is he still trying to bring back the Hulk?”

Tony shrugs at the memory of their last rushed meeting three months ago. “Sort of. He described it as gamma-assisted psychotherapy. I asked him to explain and he said he wouldn’t know where to start. That was when I got the feeling I was way out of my depth.” He chucks the sauce packet in a bin and stares helplessly at the stars peeking through the thick veil of the night. “It’s hard to argue with the only man on Earth with that kind of expertise. You can only stand back and watch him work his magic.”

“I suppose so.” Thor’s face is creased in concern as he steps out of the car. “Still, that cannot be safe, he’s lived as a regular human for too long. If he’s not careful, he may be well on his way to permanent damage.”

To his utter dismay, Tony has no doubt that he is completely serious. “Are you looking to replace that shack in Asgard?” he asks, deadpan. “Because I know a property that’d be perfect for you. Two stories. Made of glass. Comes with a lifetime supply of stones."

The lone blue eye gives him a confused blink before Thor raises his hands in a mock, defensive gesture. “Fair enough, you made your point. I just wish you placed the same trust in me.” He flicks a rogue strand of hair from his forehead and chuckles softly. “Favorite Avenger privileges?”

Tony gives him a short, apologetic shrug. “I get antsy around space magic. Bruce has seven Ph.D.s in things I can understand and common sense to go with all of them.” He watches Thor’s eyebrow rise over his missing eye and breathes out a suffering sigh. “What I mean is that he knows where to draw the line. Your self-preservation needs some serious work.”

“I’m not the one who threw himself into a Tesseract portal holding a nuke.” Thor pauses to point at the second floor of the massive building. “Looks like you were right.”

Tony looks up to see light flood a long, narrow window. A large, distorted shadow moves across a wall in the background, then immediately disappears. He glances back at his phone to confirm what he already knows. It is way past midnight, in fact, the clock has been steadily counting away the minutes towards half-past one. It reminds him of another reason he used to avoid this particular Candyland. He and Bruce tended to egg on each other’s bad habits, especially one of never seeming to sleep.

He walks up to the main door and punches in the entry code over a set of smudged, silicone keys. The screen above them awakens to display the words ‘access denied’.

He rubs his temples in frustration. The late hour must be getting to him if he thought Bruce would keep the same code for months on end. He tries the call button and after nearly a whole minute, a muted crackle sprouts from the recesses of the speaker.

“Bruce?” he asks, but no reply comes. He waits a moment, then tries again, leaning closer to the microphone. “Hey, buddy? You in there?”

He is greeted with more silence after another round of crackling. A low grumble gradually swells over it, followed by a thud and a loud crash. When the speaker stops acting up, the first thing to come through crystal clear is an ear-splitting roar.

For a moment, Tony’s blood runs cold as he forces himself to reassess his opinion of drawing lines. The screen above the speaker crashes to black before revealing a large, green-tinged visage but he is not looking at it anymore. He darts away from the door, hoping it holds long enough for the suit to form and swears as he turns towards a stone-faced Thor. 

“We have a code green,” he says, breathless. “Veronika takes three to five minutes to be operational so we have to contain him until then. You still remember the lullaby?”

He watches Thor nod, though his expression is the opposite of certain. He looks about to protest but instead, he just puts a hand on Tony’s back and turns him towards the screen, where the image has cleared up. An undeniably Hulk-like face stares back at him but the rage he fears is nowhere to be found. Instead, there’s a hint of embarrassment in the deep, green eyes as he runs a massive hand through a shock of black hair.

“No, no! No code green. Everything’s fine. I just stubbed my leg against this goddamn…” He bends down, disappearing out of the frame, then quickly pops back up. “Tony? What are you doing here so late?”

It takes Tony a few moments to recover his composure and roll with the distinct lack of punches. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. I thought I’d try a more direct approach.” He waits for the nanomachines to pull the suit away from his body and steps closer to the door. “Can you open up? We obviously have a lot to talk about.”

The man on the other side does not reply. He seems to be staring at something over Tony’s shoulder, eyes narrowing in recognition. They grow wide again when Thor steps in front of the camera and gives it a small, awkward wave. A second later, the heavy door groans as the bolts holding it shut noisily leave their slots. Tony notices that it has been reinforced lately by what, in the pale gleam of the stars, looks very much like a vibranium alloy.

“Sure,” he hears the scientist say. “As long as you two go first.”

* * *

Bruce Banner feels like he is stuck in another time loop.

He is very aware that he is pacing and the fact that he cannot stop only makes him question his mental clarity. He is no stranger to having his personal headspace cleaved in two and at least one of those halves is still not used to balancing their new body with the whims of his neurotic brain. No more than a week has gone by since their rebirth and though he remembers all of it, he had not really been in control up until the persistent ring of the intercom pulled him back into the driver’s seat. The giant facility had belonged fully to his angrier, more impulsive half as he lounged around the place, devouring popcorn by the bag and soaking in the climatized swimming pool in the basement. Bruce had managed to convince him to remain inside until he was certain that their meld was stable but after Friday rolled around, he found that he did not need to try too hard. The place might have been Candyland for him, but for Hulk, it was a more spacious version of his living quarters on Sakaar with a giant plasma screen instead of a training room. Given the amount of dust collected on its surface, Bruce could safely say no one had bothered to use it in months. Tony’s penchant for acquiring the latest entertainment gadgets always seemed to benefit others more than him. And in this case, videogame controllers had proven very useful to train large clumsy fingers for precision, rather than brute force.

He wishes he had such a straightforward solution to the collage of anxieties swirling through his mind. This is the first real stressful situation on his plate and though it is not the trial by fire that sometimes showed up in his worst ideations, it still strays far from his intended course of action. He had a multistep plan for the reveal, starting with his closest friends and ending with a press conference. There were supposed to be carefully chosen words. There was supposed to be a protocol.

All of it flew out of the window the moment the main door slid aside and two Avengers at the end of a very long day stepped in. At first, he was at a loss about how to react, as if he had just tumbled out of bed after a long nap. He held his arms around Tony, like the man was made of porcelain and fought to regain his footing when Thor blew past all of his restraint and wrapped him in a close, intimate hug. The chronicle of the last few days came out in a jumbled, disjointed mess as they walked towards the core of the building, lights coming on in their wake. It took them a few moments to understand that his personality had not been altered. Even when they did, neither could quite get used to looking up when they addressed him.

They speak for a long time. Or rather, Tony speaks in a steady nonchalant voice as if giving another run-of-the-mill presentation at Stark Expo. Bruce listens dumbfounded, taking in maps of neural interfaces and brain activity patterns as the ghost of a quasi-alien device assembles on the holographic screen. It is at times like these that he wishes there was a chair big enough to hold his weight.

He manages to stop pacing to take a long look at the three-dimensional model. “First of all,” he says, “this is absurd. And second, I don’t see why we can’t tell Steve and Nat. What do you think they’re going to do? Sell us out to SHIELD?”

Tony, who has no such problems with chairs, taps his foot restlessly against the pristine tiles. He and Thor cross a brief but eloquent glance as he tents his fingers before his face. “Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is that I wouldn’t want to walk into the Compound and tell them we’re planning to reverse-engineer a HYDRA device for human experimentation. I don’t see that going well.”

“We’re not Arnim Zola. I’m sure they will at least hear us out.”

“Sure, they will.” Tony reaches an interested hand towards a row of test tubes, where a thick layer of precipitate gathers at the curved bottom. “And then, there’s a good chance they’ll put the kibosh on the entire plan so we’ll lose our chance forever.” He gives one of the tubes an experimental tap and glances back at him. “That’s why I am asking you to keep this between us.”

Bruce kneads his forehead, struggling against the ever-gnawing feeling of deja-vu. The subtle but persistent anger lapping at his mind is as familiar as it is unhelpful. “No offense, but I still remember what happened last time you asked. Do you really want to go down the same path?”

“We got Vision out of it, didn’t we?” Tony’s attempt at a smile stays a light, penitent smirk as his eyes settle on him meaningfully. “You’ve seen the data. Look me in the eye and tell me you honestly think this can’t work. It’s child’s play compared to what you just pulled off.”

“Just because we can do something doesn’t mean we should. That’s the one thing I expected you to know by now.” A long silence hangs in the air which Bruce uses to snatch back the hologram’s remote and close up on the neural sensors lining the inner helmet. “Tony, this is a very, _very_ tight needle to thread. One misstep, one miscalculation, and his brain is leaking out of his ears. You _do_ understand that, right?”

He can see the rebuttal winding up behind the engineer’s frown but it is Thor who ends up answering. “I do,” he says. “I won’t pretend I’m a scientist, but I assume there were also considerable risks to experimenting with gamma radiation. Am I wrong?”

There’s a pointed quality to his tone as a sharp glint crosses his eye. Bruce suspects he is annoyed at them for talking as if he was not present and can almost feel Hulk’s silent judgment from behind the veil. “Of course there were,” he argues, “but it’s not the same thing. I planned every step from the ground up. I established safeguards for every wrong turn.”

“I’m sure you did. But why take the risk in the first place?” Thor leans away from the table lined with beakers and looks at him straight on. “You’re a smart man, Banner, you look before you leap every single time. I’ll be the first to admit that I missed Hulk, but both of you seemed to have finally found peace. Why put both your health and sanity in danger? Why not let him sleep forever?”

Bruce sighs and looks away as an uncomfortable truth rears its ugly head. “Hulk didn’t find peace. I certainly didn’t either. I found a comfort zone for no one but myself.” The words snap in his mouth, like ice under a heavy boot. “There was a fire...”

Thor gives him a brief nod, blue gaze still upon him. The inquisitive silence becomes impossible to ignore so he stops trying and takes the plunge. “It happened the week after I moved into my new place. A guy in the opposite building fell asleep with an electric blanket. By the time anyone realized what was going on, the flames had spread to the fifth floor and the whole structure was becoming unstable. Then someone remembered there was a girl living there.”

He lowers himself on a metal crate, the only thing in the room he can use as an improvised chair. “I ran into with her once or twice at the grocery store. Nice kid, came to the city to study photography. She wore a hearing aid so she probably didn’t hear the alarm. And now she was stuck in a burning building with a gawking crowd outside and the fire brigade at least half an hour away.”

“So you tried to go in?”

Bruce nods, massaging the bridge of his nose to chase away a creeping tension headache. “Damn right, I did. I completely forgot about Hulk dormancy until I broke down her door and realized I couldn’t just grab her in one hand and bust my way out. I somehow managed to drag us both to the second floor until the staircase crumbled and left us stranded. The only option left was to jump out of a window, so I tried to cushion her fall as much as I could. By then, I suspected she was already dead but the girl is tougher than a box of nails. She pulled through.”

He pauses to suck in an unsteady breath. The loose remnants of the memory ignite in his brain in short bursts, like some particularly unpleasant brand of fireworks. “I can’t tell you much about what happened next. Only that I woke up in an ambulance and an EMT was trying to figure out if I was actually _that_ Bruce Banner. When I told him that I was, he asked me why I didn’t just transform.”

The last word still carries a lingering, bitter aftertaste. Thor probably catches on, since an unspoken tension spreads around the corners of his mouth. “You saved that girl’s life. Who cares what form you did it in?”

“I do. She’s going to have permanent respiratory problems because of all the smoke she inhaled. Hulk would have been able to get her out a lot sooner.” A small, joyless laugh gets in the way of Thor’s interjection. “Funnily enough, I walked away completely unscathed. Minor burns, no carbon monoxide poisoning, not even spine damage for when I fell on the pavement.” He pauses, staring down at his new hands as he weaves his fingers together. “Hulk protected me back there. That’s what he’s been doing ever since I crashed through the New York Sanctum but every time I called for him he refused to answer. I think he was sick of being used as a weapon and nothing else. Can’t say I blame him after all these years.” 

He chews on the inside of his cheek, savoring the irony of it all. “I missed him too, you know? I could hear him in my head as I was dodging burning rubble but at the end of the day, the person he helped the most was me. And then, there I was at the back of an ambulance, safe and sound, and all I could think was that I joined the Avengers because I wanted to use Hulk’s powers to help humanity. I just never stopped to negotiate any terms with him.” For a moment, a reassuring presence stirs at the back of his mind, urging him to go on. “That’s why I decided to bring him back, so we could make a deal. So we could share our time in the world and next time something like this happened, we could both help.”

He looks up to see Thor crouch beside him with a sympathetic expression upon his face. A distant fire burns in the blue depths he feared he would never see clear and focused again. As his warm hand closes over Bruce’s with no hint of hesitation, he feels the hairs stand on end at the back of his neck. This is not the fading shadow he has watched grimly bide its time in New Asgard as winter crept closer. This is the iron will Hulk met on Sakaar, one that would not break or bend before anything.

“That’s all I want to do,” he says earnestly. “I want to help. We lost half the universe in Wakanda, Banner, I want to put it right. I know I can, but there is a wall in my head that I cannot break. It seems like you are way ahead of me so can you please lend me your talent? Can we please make a deal as well?”

“My talent is going to get you killed, pal.” What follows is another lengthy pause that ends with Bruce’s exasperated sigh as he cannot help but return the gentle squeeze. “Fine, okay, you win. Just stop giving me those puppy-dog eyes.” Before Thor can say anything, a sudden thought threads through him, clear and urgent. “Hang on! I want to try something.”

He stands up and walks towards the far end of the lab where a shallow vat holds a project that has consumed most of his spare time for the past year. He reaches for gloves, realizes his mistake, and quickly slathers his hands in strong disinfectant. Satisfied, he reaches inside the vat and scoops up a blue eye from a clear, gelatinous base.

Thor, who has followed him with a curious demeanor tilts his head, puzzled. “Is that…?”

“Bioartificial organic tissue. Specially designed to adapt to the user’s genetic makeup.” Bruce beckons him closer. “Can I?”

He gets a small nod in reply and gently cups the back of the blond head. The eye gingerly leaves his careful grasp and settles in a snug fit inside the god of thunder’s empty socket. For a moment, Bruce stands very still, watching out for any signs of discomfort until eventually, Thor blinks and takes a slow step back.

“It’s warm.” His voice is a mere whisper as he blinks again, taking a tentative look around. “It feels like it’s alive.”

Bruce lets out a soft laugh, doing his best to hide his pride. “Good, that means it’s taking. In a few hours, it should finish restoring your optic nerve. In a few days, it will be indistinguishable from your other eye.” He leans closer to inspect his masterpiece. “That will stop you from taking it out to mess with guests.”

“That was one time!” Blue eyes roll in perfect unison right before Thor laughs and pulls him into a brief, playful embrace. “Thank you! For everything. It means a lot.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Bruce holds him close and breathes a temperate sigh as he places his hands on Thor’s shoulders. “I feel like you’re about to undo all of my hard work. I really hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Fear not, Banner. I have absolute faith in you.” Thor clasps his arm tight and glances towards the engineer sitting cross-legged on the opposite side of the lab. “Both of you.”

Tony just shakes his head as he meets the restored blue gaze. An unknowable spark blazes across his eyes and brings about a hopeful smile. “You’re technically a god, sunshine. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the other way around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, team Ultron is back together, sans Helen and well, Ultron himself. Maybe I should call it team Vision instead.
> 
> As always, if you liked it, please, please leave a comment. My inbox craves them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry! I'm a whole month late, I know. In my defense, all of November has been a nightmare and we're all probably better off with this getting published now. Anywhoo, please proceed to enjoy this giant ball of PainTM.
> 
> Yes, it has 5 chapters now. I don't know what self-control is.

Bruce schedules the first Neuroweaver test for seven a.m.

Tony does not sleep much the night before. The old trick of disassembling a random device in his head just brings frustration as he keeps spotting design flaws he should have caught years ago. He resists the urge to keep a record of his findings and instead, lies under the dense cover of darkness, listening to the prolonged sobs of the wind blowing through the trees. Though spring’s foot is firmly in the door, winter refuses to concede and yesterday’s rainstorm has already become a thin sheet of ice over the parking lot. It has only gotten colder since then and he thanks his lucky star all the important equipment was transported early in the week. If the temperature keeps dropping, they are more than likely to get snowed in.

Given his recent work rhythm, though, he would fail to notice if a blizzard had buried the building whole. His workshop, reassembled from the one in his garage plus a few loans from Stark Industries, has been fully operational for days and producing all the right results. He was occasionally tempted to add some tools left behind at the Compound but not enough to navigate the questions that would inevitably arise. Rhodey kept a watchful eye on their inventory and though Tony trusted him to keep a secret, he did not want to put the man in a position where he would be forced to lie. What Steve and Natasha did not know would not hurt them. Or so he keeps telling himself as he rolls over in bed and the Neuroweaver floats before his mind’s eye for the hundredth time.

It is an odd routine he is caught in, where he spends his days building the device and his nights taking it apart. If he is honest with himself, he already longs for the moment he can take a sledgehammer to the thing. The row of bloody corpses covered in dirty sheets never strays too far from his mind. Not even when, against his better judgment, he finally decided to share the grisliest details with his partner in crime.

The green eyes had grown cold and hard at the revelation. There was no outward anger, no frustrated berating Tony had thoroughly prepared for. If anything, it seemed like Bruce had been waiting for such a turn of events, but when he resumed his work, he chose to do so from his private lab. For the next couple of hours, the sound of constant pacing haunted the ceiling of Tony’s workshop and curdled his thoughts with regret. He would have preferred an argument. He would have preferred a trip back in time so he could have told him the whole truth from the start.

Intentionally or not, they both keep out of each other’s sight for the rest of the day. When Tony shuffles into the kitchen for a snack in the late evening, he finds Bruce absentmindedly picking at his food with a fork that looks like a toothpick in his hand. Their eyes meet for an awkward moment as Tony stalls in front of the fridge, thinking of a proper way to ask forgiveness. It comes as a blessing that it is Bruce who ends up cutting through the thick veil of silence.

“Does Thor know?”

His irritation is audible but the only answer Tony has is not likely to improve the situation. “He was the one who found those files at the castle. He knew before I did.”

“And he didn’t bother to tell me either. That’s great!” The scientist lays down the doll-sized cutlery as if the conversation is making him lose his appetite. “You know, I miss the times when the team shared a bit too much information. All we do now is keep secrets.”

Tony reaches towards a row of glasses, avoiding the man’s pointed stare. He too is often nostalgic for the days when Stark Tower was an on and off haven for the Avengers. Even if he knows he is remembering them through rose-tinted lenses, he cannot help but long for their return. Things were simpler back then. So much of the pain looming on the horizon had not touched them yet.

“Don’t put this on Thor,” he replies, “he would have told you everything. I was the one who locked those files away to give us the best possible shot.” He pours himself a tall drink and hides his contriteness behind a gulp. “I’m sorry, I should have trusted you.”

“Yeah, you should have.” Tony stays silent as Bruce lets out a dismissive groan. “Look, you’re forgiven but you’re going to have to do a lot better than that when Steve finds out. I promise he is not going to be half as understanding.” He rests his massive elbows upon the table with a thoughtful look. “The first six subjects died from an acute brain hemorrhage. Do we know what caused it?”

Tony swirls the ice cubes in his glass, grateful for the rush of energy brought on by sugar and caffeine. “Shoddy design. And no will to improve it, from what I can tell. The power distribution across the sensors isn’t even and the voltage jumps from one to eleven in the blink of an eye. You need precise tuning to produce the right neural synapses but HYDRA was just playing whack-a-mole with people’s brains.” He takes another sip, wishing Ultron had gotten more creative when he killed Strucker. “Don’t worry, I can fix it.”

Bruce gives him a curt nod. “Good to know. I have more than enough problems on my side.” His expression clouds as anger gives way to a fearful shadow. “You know Thor’s vitals log after Sokovia? I went through it last night and to say it doesn’t look promising would be an understatement. When we started, I was afraid that if we took a wrong turn we could kill him. Now I’m afraid that we’ll do everything right and we still might.”

Dread echoes across Tony’s chest like a distant avalanche. The dormant addict in him craves a splash of whiskey in his coke and grumbles at his decision to never keep alcohol in any of his facilities. “I’m aware of that,” he says. “We both are. That’s why we’re here.”

“Because you couldn’t convince anyone else?”

“Because of your very particular set of skills. And because you care about Thor as much as I do.”

Bruce chews on his lower lip as he pulls apart cold chicken with surgical precision. “The power of love isn’t going to help us,” he states with grim certainty. “I don’t think any of you appreciate how close of a call that night was. I can stem the worst of it, keep him stable but if his fever skyrockets like that again, I don’t know if I can get it under control before it’s too late. You almost didn’t.”

Tony breathes a heavy sigh, nursing the cool glass. It will be a long time before he forgets how numb his hands went back then and how long it took him to realize they were shaking. He wonders what good he is to Bruce if he cannot put his own mind at ease. Helen Cho had somehow managed to do that from across the planet, but like many others, she is gone. The two of them are a poor substitute and they are both cripplingly aware of it.

“I wasn’t prepared,” he replies. “I had no idea what was going on, the power went out. I was working with leftover ice and half a prayer before I got to someone who could actually help. We know what to expect now, and we have a working medical deck. I like our new odds a lot better.”

“I don’t like to gamble with my friends’ lives at all.” Bruce slides his chair away and leans against the reinforced back. “You seem incredibly calm. Aren’t you worried we’re making a huge mistake?”

Tony wraps his arm around his waist, anchoring himself against the marble countertop. “I thought about it,” he admits. “More than once. I also know that no soul in the known universe can make Thor change his mind so I’ll settle for keeping him safe. That’s why we’re doing that test, right? So that we can tweak any potential flaws before the big day?”

“Sure.” The reminder seems to bring about some comfort, but Bruce’s eyes still betray uneasiness. “I just wish there was something more I could do. I’ve been going over every detail for the past hour and at this point, my brain is starting to eat itself.” He reaches into the fridge and pulls out a non-alcoholic beer dwarfed to the size of a thimble. “Any prayers on your mind?”

Tony chuckles as the green eyes ponder downing the can in one gulp. He knows the question is far from serious. They have spent enough time huddled over common projects to commiserate over their trials and tribulations and learn that religion did not factor into any of those. Faith did not keep Bruce’s parents’ stormy marriage afloat and failed to ease the agony of liver cirrhosis that eventually claimed his father. Tony’s mother believed just enough to donate to religious charities, while her husband rejected the idea altogether. Tony himself had never considered asking any higher power for help. Whenever anxiety tied his thoughts into knots, he would keep himself occupied or take a walk, no matter how late the hour.

That was how, on the night before their raid of HYDRA’s headquarters, he ended up wandering around Stark Tower despite Steve’s explicit instructions. The team had gathered there to go over their strategy and as Tony walked up the flight of stairs leading to the rooftop, he had gone over it again, as if trying to etch his planned path across the sky into the future. Lost in what must have been the fifth reconstruction, he only noticed Thor standing at the far end of the terrace when the other turned around at the sound of his footsteps.

“Can’t sleep either?” The late spring wind was warm but strong, tugging at Tony’s clothes like a persistent child, as he walked over to his side. “I think I heard Clint firing arrows at the gym. One more and we can start a mutiny.”

Thor’s broad shoulders rose apologetically under a thin layer of tanned leather. “That is far from my intention. I don’t believe it is yours either.”

“What would be the point? Cap’s the only one here who’s leader material. Which is good because I know nobody else wants the job.” He leaned on the thick glass balustrade. “So what’s the deal? You’re not the type to have pre-mission jitters.”

Thor sank into a long pause as windows blinked busily in and out of sight in the bright sea of city lights. “It was not uncertainty that brought me here,” he said after a while. “Asgardian warriors have a tradition. On the night before a battle, they sit under the sky and watch the stars come out. It is meant to make us understand that the universe is bigger than us and it will still be here after we are gone. It also gives those who are fated to die one last moment of peace.”

“Let’s try to avoid that one. We’re all too handsome to die young.” Tony aimed a complicit look at the unopened can in Thor’s hand. “Is that part of it?”

"Sometimes. Though I will admit, it is not strictly necessary.” The smile that touched his lips was quick to turn wistful. “Would you like to join me?”

Tony bowed his head in quiet agreement as they settled on a bench beside a stone flowerbed. There was an odd duality to Thor’s demeanor whenever he talked about Asgard. No matter how happy and proud he sounded recounting some madcap adventure of his youth, the subtle hint of sadness was ever-present and when the noise of the world receded, it soaked into his every word. Tony did not know if it was his home or his mother and brother who he missed so dearly. When that melancholic veil descended upon the blue eyes, he was not sure it mattered.

“So what do you guys do,” he asked. “Sing songs? Sneak a quick romp in the bushes while the captain isn’t looking?”

Thor let out a subtle laugh. “No Asgardian needs special circumstances for that. At least not the ones I have met.” He tore off the tab, sending a thin spray of foam into the air, and raised the can towards the night sky. “Mostly, what we do is this.”

Despite his close friendship with a godlike being, Tony could never really fit the existence of magic into his worldview. Jane Foster once explained it away as science humans did not understand yet and he was inclined to agree. Mjolnir was imbued with some alien detection system that read Thor’s genetic code. The Bifrost was somehow able to store massive amounts of energy and manipulate it to create an Einstein-Rozen Bridge. Loki’s illusions were clever light refractions whose secret he would one day unravel. And yet, he cannot describe the words uttered by the god of thunder that night as anything else but a spell.

They did not stay on the roof for long. Midnight had just hung the full moon right over the sleepless city when they decided it was time to bid it farewell and take the elevator downstairs. Tony still struggles to remember the specifics of their conversation. But to this day, when apprehension runs rampant across his mind, he finds himself searching for a glass of increasingly less alcoholic beverages. And the same words ring in his head clear and true, warding off unease in blatant disregard of any scientific explanation.

He smirks at Bruce’s request for a prayer. “I know something close enough,” he says and raises the drink, going flat in his restless grasp. “Here’s to Gefjon, the Bringer of Luck, and all her lovely maidens.”

He takes a long, ceremonial sip, draining the glass in the process. His secret knowledge is somewhat undermined when Bruce lightly touches his can to Tony’s and finishes the toast without missing a beat. “May we never need their intervention.”

* * *

The sound of Thor’s boisterous laughter precedes him by several minutes.

Tony hears it spill across the hallway and bounce off the steel walls that converge in a windowless dome over his head. They make him feel like he is standing under an overturned fishbowl, which echoes his footsteps and splits his shadow into multiple, pale doppelgangers. The space, the size of a small conference hall, was originally intended for replicating alien environments before Bruce adapted it into the gamma lab that catalyzed his transformation. Some of his equipment is still around, too cumbersome to be stored anywhere else, but the new centerpiece is the finished Neuroweaver, gingerly transported from the workshop the previous evening. Its immaculate white surface gleams under the LEDs pinned in strategic positions around the room. The medical monitors connected to it with loose strings of cables remind Tony of Helen’s prototype for the Cradle.

The device itself resembles an MRI scanner, with a chamber only large enough to enclose a person’s head. Its smooth curve is open at the top, rising only past the temples, with the lower half fastened to a padded gurney. Tony squats before it, checking that the wheels are locked and runs a failsafe check on the power source. It works as intended, flashing back a green light on the console installed on the side. It also flashes back the time of the test, half-past six EST.

He’s been awake for at least an hour now. He really should learn to tame his brain one of these days.

The sound of lively conversation coupled with heavy footsteps drifts closer as the heavy door slides open. He spots the hulking green form strolling confidently into the lab before he sees Thor hang behind with a frown.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

Tony rubs his stiff neck and yawns. “It’s too early to be this chipper, sunshine. My charming self doesn’t finish loading until at least ten a.m.” He turns around to find their third companion examining the Neuroweaver with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. “So, who am I talking to? The brains or the brawn?”

He knows his levity is misplaced when the other shoots him a surly look. “Stark should really know by now. Hulk thought he was smart.”

Tony crumples the empty paper cup in his hand, mourning the lack of visual cues before the double-shot latte could work its magic. “Sorry, I’m still processing the whole Jekyll and Hyde situation. Maybe you should wear a nametag for the next couple of days.” He chuckles but finds himself in the minority under a chiding blue gaze. “Come on! Like you can tell them apart at a glance.”

Fondness tugs at Thor’s mouth as he seals the door behind him. “Banner still slouches. Not even months of gamma radiation can fix that. Also, Hulk doesn’t know what a comb is.”

“Hair is hair. If it tangles, Hulk just shave it off.” A teasing note lurks beneath the dismissive grunt. “Maybe shave Thor’s too while he’s sleeping. Save him time with those pretty braids.”

“I could teach you how to make those. They aren’t that difficult.”

“Hulk not into fashion statements.” The green eyes narrow as the god of thunder administers a light, performative punch to a giant arm. “Thor better not leave Hulk hanging tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I find basketball a lot more fulfilling than the arena.” Thor raises his arms to stretch, cracks echoing across his spine and Tony wonders if, despite mutual promises, they have all slept as little as him. “Can I speak to Banner now?”

The transformation is subtle but not enough to go unnoticed. There is indeed a visible slouch to the broad back and a mild change in posture when a large hand briefly closes over the green eyes. They blink, cloud and refocus, taking in their surroundings with calm, methodical precision. There is even a shift to his voice, which goes from deep bass to a gentle baritone as he greets them and strides towards the Neuroweaver. His fingers move over settings in a well-memorized pattern.

“You work fast,” he notes, matter-of-factly. “I was sure we’d need at least another week.”

Tony takes his place at Bruce’s side and pops the side cover to inspect the delicate clockwork at the base of the helmet. “Turns out four hands work faster than two. And I didn’t expect Point Break to be a warrior-poet with a CNC cutter.”

He hears Thor’s soft laugh drift over his head. His calloused hand rests hesitantly on the device as if he cannot quite believe he has contributed to its construction. “Neither did I. Asgardians take great pride in their smithcraft, but I was always awful at it. It’s good to know that I’m not a complete disappointment to my ancestors.”

“What do they know? My dad wanted me to be a journalist, I ended up as the story.” Bruce types in a long command sequence and hums at the results. “Alright, outer sensors are in position, helmet integration is seamless. Voltage settings are on point and I see no feedback issues so we should be good to go.” He turns towards Thor. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.” The answer comes way too quickly. Bruce’s mouth tightens but Thor does not give him the chance to voice his doubts. “Really, I’m fine. I slept for a full eight hours, FRIDAY has the logs to prove it.”

“You’ve been meditating, right?” Thor’s quick confirmation prompts a determined nod. “That’s good. The program that redirects neural synapses is closely tied to the subject’s mental state. The clearer your mind is, the more likely we are to avoid the worst side-effects.” He pauses, waiting for Tony to click the cover back into the slot. “I’m willing to bet it’s what caused the other half of those deaths. Can’t imagine being very calm after you’ve been kidnapped and strapped to a game of Operation.”

Thor nods in somber agreement, his eyes distant. The Neuroweaver’s helmet slides aside with a whisper and he lies down on the gurney. “That could explain why Wanda and Pietro survived,” he says. “They were volunteers. Vengeance can be a powerful beacon even in the most harrowing circumstances.”

“So I’ve been told.” Bruce takes one final look at the console before carefully placing the helmet around the blond head. “Try to keep as still as possible. You’re going to hear a light buzzing, those are the sensors syncing up.” He pushes a polyurethane ball into Thor’s hand. “If you feel that anything is wrong...”

“Press the emergency switch. I know.” Thor lets out a steady breath, eyes slipping closed. “Ready?”

Despite the snakes coiling in Tony’s stomach, a smile finds its way to his lips. He fully expected to ask the question himself and for a moment, Thor’s unwavering trust in him and Bruce manages to dampen the nervousness plaguing his thoughts for the past week. As he glances up at his fellow Avenger, he has no doubt that they share the same sentiment.

Better move on fast before the spell wears off.

He engages the power source and listens to the gears rumble into motion. Beside him, Bruce types in the initiation command and mutters. “Here we go.”

* * *

The buzzing is a lot louder than Thor expects.

It starts as a swarm of angry bees trapped inside his skull. The noise is bearable for a few seconds before it escalates to the roar of an engine and then, to a deafening wail that reminds him of the chronically malfunctioning thrusters on the Statesman. At first, he can still hear the voices of his friends curtly exchanging updates but eventually, those too fade behind the thick, oppressive curtain that blocks everything save the sound of his own tremulous breath. He struggles to control its rhythm, doing his best to dismiss a wave of nausea that builds up under his ribs. His heart is a dull, faraway echo, wholly disconnected from the blood that sings in his ears.

It all stops as suddenly as it began. He is left adrift in the dark as a cold, numb sensation springs up in his toes and crawls over his legs, his arms, his chest. Soon, his neck is also locked in a death grip and he finds it hard to keep his mind a blank slate. A stream of intrusive thoughts begins to trickle past the barrier. Can he even press the emergency switch now? Would he even know if anything was wrong?

His head burns in the inscrutable blackness behind his eyelids. A sharp sting travels from his temples and sinks into the back of his head like a jagged blade. An involuntary gasp flees his lungs, the pain becomes too great to keep his eyes closed. It finally forces them open to a searing, endless light as his body becomes weightless in the bright void. When it starts to tear itself apart, he hears distant car horns and smells fresh rain on asphalt.

The lab is gone, in its place is a leaden morning sky. What lies beneath the ashen clouds is a bridge, or what is bound to become a bridge at some point. Construction is still underway judging by the stone barriers that enclose a strip of naked concrete with only a hint of road markings. Skyscrapers rise in the distance but the hustle and bustle of the city does not reach the silver-haired man and woman completely engrossed by a large computer screen. It is mounted atop an intricate technical setup balanced precariously on metal stands. Rows of thick cables drape across them, snaking between their feet towards a battered brown van. Shortly after the woman’s fingers cease their patter across the keyboard, it sways on worn tires and blares out a vaguely familiar jingle.

A dark-haired man in a tight-fitted red suit leans out of the driver’s seat and casts an embarrassed look in their direction. “Sorry,” he yells out. “My bad.”

The silver-haired man groans, pulling off his glasses with a kind of practiced resignation. “I used to be a respected scientist,” he says. “Had my name on the sides of buildings and everything. Now, I have this.”

The woman tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “You wanted a smaller Quantum Tunnel,” she argues teasingly. “This is… smaller.”

The defeated shrug that comes her way is delivered with fondness only a spouse is capable of. She grins and goes back to her calibrations as the two men join a willowy brunette before the back of the van. Its doors are spread wide open to reveal a square tunnel nested between its walls, taking up most of the cargo compartment. The layered depths flicker like a flame under a rising gale and as they do, the rest of the world begins to flicker in kind.

Thor is sure he voices the curse stuck in his throat. It makes no difference since nobody seems to be aware of his presence. The realization spurs him towards the graying woman typing up a complicated combination with a tense, determined look. He reaches her just in time for the invisible knife wedged in his head to drive itself deeper.

This time he screams in agony. The woman remains unfazed as he fights to keep his eyes fixed on the screen while it distorts like a painting sinking under turbulent water. The low whirr of the tunnel is the last coherent sound that reaches him before the sky becomes an unformed gray mass and the pulsing roar of the Neuroweaver invades his ears.

As he drops into numb darkness once more, he hears Bruce say, “That’s enough.”

* * *

There is no doubt about it. They are looking at a storm.

Sweat coats Bruce’s palms as he clasps white-knuckled hands together. He cannot find a better description for the mesmerizing dance of neural impulses that light up the three-dimensional mirror of Thor’s brain spilling from the holographic projector. If it is a dance, it is one that involves fire and as the number on the temperature indicator climbs higher, his furtive looks towards the god of thunder grow more frequent. Logic tells him that cooling panels are installed behind the inner row of sensors. It reminds him that FRIDAY is monitoring Thor’s condition and can react a lot faster than any human. It reassures him that a specially-programmed safety feature will end the test automatically before his vitals reach dangerous levels.

Logic has not been his ally ever since he launched the program. Despite obsessively planning every detail, he has stepped beyond theory and now, under the sickly, greenish hue of the neural helmet, Thor looks too much like a discarded subject from HYDRA’s files. The thought leaves a cold trace across Bruce’s back. He should have told Steve. Or at least Nat. She would have been able to talk them out of this.

Then again, maybe that is precisely why he had not. Maybe this time, his curiosity had proven greater than his common sense. It was an unfortunate side-effect of counting Tony Stark among his friends.

His bad influence, who has not been able to sit still for the past five minutes, finally chooses to join him beside the hologram. “That one was really bright,” he points out in a deceptively even tone. “That’s normal, right?”

Bruce sighs as a chain of synaptic pathways blazes across the frontal lobe and disappears into the hippocampus. “I couldn’t define normal if you paid me. All I can say is that it has happened before. And if we want to achieve the right neural configuration, it needs to happen again.”

“I noticed,” Tony speaks quietly as if talking to himself, watching light scatter across the hologram in short bursts. “I’ve seen this pattern before, it repeats every two minutes. Lights up the entire brain like a firework display.” He comes to an abrupt, awkward pause. “They’re getting more frequent, aren’t they?”

Though the conversation is a welcome intrusion, Bruce struggles to keep it going as he massages his hands to calm his nerves. “They are,” he says. “Same surges were present in the EEG after Sokovia. They started within a hundred and thirty-second intervals but that didn’t last long. Within three cycles, the rate dropped to just five seconds. And then, you know…”

“Circuit overload?”

Bruce winces slightly. “Something like that. But I think it doesn’t have to be that way. Whatever triggers those visions is linked to the surges, not the seizure itself. We just have to keep the intervals from getting too short.” He leans closer to the display, right as the progress bar reaches the twenty-five percent mark of the programmed sequence. “Alright, that’s enough.”

As if waiting for his sign, Tony types in the command to stops the process. The Neuroweaver emits a steady purr and grows quiet, green LEDs losing their glow. The hologram blinks out of existence, its two-dimensional twin appearing on the main console within the next second. Bruce glances at the vitals monitor where the temperature indicator remains stalled. Though within a healthy range for an Asgardian, it is still a bit high for his liking.

He presses a button tucked under the nape of the helmet and watches the sensors retract into the inner panels. The blond head lolls to the side the moment it is free from the device, sinking deeper into the pillow. Thor’s chest falls slightly as if he had been holding his breath but soon settles into a shallow, troubling cadence that Bruce has only ever seen in comatose patients. It doesn’t even disturb the strands of hair scattered loosely over his face and it barely registers on Bruce’s hands as he places them over the god of thunder’s temples.

“Thor?” he calls out in a low voice. “Can you hear me?”

The only reaction he gets is pale eyelids quivering under some unseen strain. A strong, rhythmic pulse travels through warm skin, the kind that tends to precede a migraine. The mild swelling registered by the brain scan only confirms his suspicions as he frowns and searches through an auxiliary tray for a penlight. When he turns back, he finds Tony leaning over the gurney, his jaw in the grip of poorly disguised tension.

“How is he?” he asks.

Bruce flicks on the penlight and carefully exposes a glassy, blue eye. “Vitals are bouncing back. That’s all we can know for sure.” He lets out a controlled breath when the pupil shrinks under the narrow beam. “Main neural response seems fine too but I had accounted for that. It’s the rest I’m worried about.”

“Define ‘the rest’.”

“Just because a seatbelt saves your life doesn’t mean it won’t do a number on your ribs. And when it comes to the brain there’s really nothing like direct feedback.” Uncertainty builds up in Bruce’s chest as the even beeping of the vitals monitor no longer reassures him. “Come on, pal, stop scaring us. I need you to wake up.”

He cradles the blond head in his palm, brushing his thumb against Thor’s cheek. It is only then that they see him draw in a deeper breath and his eyes start to flicker open. Misshapen pupils stare back in between slow, groggy blinks. One is a tiny dot, the other, wide like a cat’s, straining against the dark.

Tony flashes a restrained smile at the sight. “Welcome back, Kwisatz Haderach,” he says. “How is it going?”

Thor returns a blank, listless stare. He does not seem to process his words at all until sudden urgency seizes his bleary look as he forces himself into a sitting position. “Paper,” he mumbles. “I need paper. And something to write with.”

Bruce struggles not to laugh as Tony casts a lost look around the lab. As expected from a futurist, his friend has long abandoned such things in favor of laconic notes on his smartphone. Bruce has not yet reached that point and digs into his pockets to produce a pencil clipped to a weathered notepad. Thor flips to a fresh page with a manic determination and starts feverishly sketching out a rectangular shape dotted with tightly clustered circles. He realizes it must be some sort of console when Thor’s fingers move hesitantly over numbered buttons, as if he is trying to recall a combination.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Coordinates, I think.” Thor rolls a clenched fist across furrowed eyebrows. “Or maybe a key but it’s incomplete. I woke up before she could finish, I’m not sure how much is missing. There was…”

He trails off and shudders where he sits. He remains still for a while, trying to recover his composure but blood drains from his cheeks as he tries to speak again, the pencil slipping from limp fingers. When he bends down to catch it, he loses his balance and slides from the gurney, landing hard on his knees. Bruce rushes to his side right when the broad shoulders convulse and he retches amidst dry, rasping coughs. After a minute of emptying the contents of his stomach on the tiled floor, he gradually devolves into dry heaves, the last of which becomes an apologetic whisper.

Bruce’s heart sinks as he drops down to Thor’s level. “Shh,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles over his back. “Just take it easy now. We don’t have to talk about it right away.”

Thor raises his head, pulling away rows of loosened braids with a shaking hand. “Yes, we do,” he manages. “I need to tell you while it’s fresh.”

“Not in this state you don’t.” Bruce looks up at the dimming monitor and meets Tony’s concerned look as he too crouches beside them. “Your blood pressure is still too low. Keep pushing yourself like this and you’ll black out.”

He is convinced his prediction is about to come true when Thor’s head drops heavily on his shoulder. His eyes, however, retain their focus as they scan the floor for the missing pencil. “Last time I couldn’t remember a thing,” he insists. “If it happens again, this was all pointless.”

His clumsy search is brusquely interrupted by a pained hiss. He curses and clutches at his head with clawed fingers as the last of his strength seems to ebb away. Bruce shifts into a sitting position, allowing Thor to lean fully against him. It is an odd feeling since the god of thunder’s head has never been nested under his chin and never could have without his weight pinning him in place. The fact that the tallest Avenger now fits neatly in his arms is among several things he still needs to get used to. He could probably lift him up easily and lay him down on the gurney but decides against it. Moving him from a comfortable position does not seem like the best idea. At least not until he can see some color return to his face.

He carefully drapes an arm across his chest to pull him closer. “You only forgot because of the seizure, pal. There wasn’t one this time. Honestly, this went a lot better than I expected.” He swipes a tablet from a support tray, scrolling through the logs as relief floods him. “No internal hemorrhages, no neural damage, not even a fever. We did good!”

“Does that mean we’re ready to run the full sequence?”

Bruce chuckles at the impatience in Thor’s worn-out tone. “Not today. The test went well enough but we still need to work on that start-up. That first impulse is too strong, no wonder it made you vomit. Maybe we can adjust it to a more gradual build-up.” He hands the tablet back to Tony with a questioning glance. “What do you think?”

Brown eyes veer into the distance, running calculations. “I can get it done by this evening,” he replies. “If you’re worried about forgetting things, I can integrate BARF into the mainframe. It would clone the record of your brain activity and we could recreate your vision from that.” He catches himself and runs a self-conscious hand over his face as he stares at the puddle of sick on the floor. “Sorry, I _really_ have to work on that acronym.”

Thor’s back spasms against Bruce’s chest in weak laughter. “That is not a bad plan. How much will that delay us?”

“Not much. The helmet is fully compatible with the tech, it just needs a few rewirings.” Tony taps his thumb on the edge of the tablet. “The customized casing is going to take longer than all of that.”

Thor nods, studying the narrow compartment that houses the gears. “I understand. You’ll need to recut the outer shell. I can help with that, just tell me what to do.”

A unique blend of exasperation and pride crosses Tony’s face when he lays a hand over messy braids. “I can recut the outer shell in my sleep, sunshine. You need to rest. If I see you anywhere near the workshop DUM-E will throw screws at you.” He reaches towards the power source at the top of the engine but stops halfway through. “What’s with the smile? You think I’m kidding?

Thor shakes his head and reaches up, grasping the edge of the gurney for leverage. His knees are still a bit shaky when he rises to his feet aided by Bruce. The exhaustion in his voice cannot tarnish the resolve as he picks up the battered notebook. “It’s working.”

* * *

The weather does not turn like Tony expects.

In fact, spring seems to be gaining the upper hand against the last grumblings of February. When he steps out of the workshop into a very late evening he finds it pleasantly cool in sharp contrast with the biting cold that lined their windows with frost for the past few days. The air smells clean and fresh with no lingering presence of rain and he can no longer hear the mournful howl that swept across the woods all week. Instead, the trees conspire with one another, dark canopies swaying back and forth like a tide under a capricious moon. They turn the lab into a lonely gray tower surrounded on all sides by a deep, green ocean. The longer he stands there, listening to their hushed conversation, the more he starts to feel like the last person on Earth.

The thought is quickly dispelled by the blinking lights of a commercial plane crossing the inky sky. He looks up, tracing its path with tired eyes and wonders if it is an international flight. The last three years had not been kind to air travel, especially after the country began developing a large network of hydrogen-powered trains. Rhodey had joked that it might open up a market for power suits, but the truth was, few people felt safe in a pressurized tube hundreds of miles above the clouds. Too many flights had plummeted after losing their pilots in the Blip. At the very least, trains could be enabled with emergency brakes.

The pointed shadow passes over the thin wedge of a crescent moon like a slow-moving arrowhead. At the same time, a bright fluorescent glow spills from the front side of the building as a window on the very last floor blinks awake. Movement flickers across it, shadows dancing on the opposite wall and Tony lets out a brief smile. Bruce’s night owl habits were creeping back in, or perhaps they never truly left. In any case, he would appreciate the company.

He stretches out his suffering muscles and heads back inside. When he reaches the living quarters, though, it is not Bruce he finds furiously drying his hair in a steam-filled bathroom as droplets of condensation settle on the wide-open door. The towel chosen for the task is far too small. By the time Thor gives up and returns it to the rack, it is completely soaked through, dripping water all over already moist tiles. The whole process has only succeeded in fluffing up the blond mane which now falls haphazardly over bare shoulders, waiting to be wrestled into braids. As far as Tony can tell, it has never known conditioner.

The blue eyes smile when they notice him. “Good eveni...”

The greeting is abruptly cut short by a soft sneeze. Thor blinks and wrinkles his nose when heavy curls fall over his face, like shredded straw. The thin pale gold on his arms stands on end in the cooling air and Tony thinks of a golden retriever that has just climbed out of a tub. He can only hope his smirk will go unnoticed.

“You going to bed?” he asks.

Thor shakes his head, sending flecks of mint-scented water into the air. “Not yet. Turns out my room faces the densest part of the woods. The trees there grow so tall they blot out the sky.” He wipes his hands on worn-out jeans and glances meaningfully towards the kitchen. “Here is where you get the best visibility.”

“For stargazing?”

He nods, pulling over a t-shirt before he attempts to herd his hair into a messy bun. It takes three tries for the elastic band to stay in place and it threatens to come undone with every step Thor takes towards the open panoramic window. A pine-scented breeze flows through it in a lazy current, dragging delicate curtains along the wood-lined outer wall. As Tony reaches to pull them back, he sees the first stars, sharp and bright like pinpricks in the veil of the night.

Thor leans against a massive cupboard in quiet solemnity. It seems like it is not the sky he is watching but the dawn gestating behind it. “I think tomorrow counts as a battle,” he says. “Don’t you agree?”

Tony knocks off stray cobwebs that found their way to his hands from the window sill. “In every way,” he replies. “How’s the headache?”

Thor’s fingers dance gingerly across his temples, as if prodding a wound that is still tender. “It’s almost gone. The nausea too, I don’t think it lasted more than an hour. Bruce says that’s a good thing. He called it neuroplas-something.”

“Neuroplasticity?”

“Probably. All I know is that it means I’m starting to adapt to the side-effects.” Some visible discomfort still pinches his features when he flips a switch over the countertop, dimming the light to a dusky glow. “There’s food if you’re hungry,” he remarks.

Tony cocks an eyebrow at a large stockpot sitting over an induction hub. It still has that brand-new cookware gleam which is not surprising. Though the living quarters of the lab had a fully equipped kitchen, he and Bruce treated it like a layover spot to get a coffee refill. No matter how hard they tried, the fridge was always packed with individual soup cartons, take-out leftovers and cold cuts for sandwiches. When even those became too much of a hassle, their hunger pangs were soothed with cereal bars and canned meals, whose questionable textures were a small price to pay for progress. The freezer, where meat and vegetables lay stacked and portioned, was a purely vestigial addition. Even if they were to remember its purpose, both of them were cursed with severe culinary deficiency.

Intrigued, he lifts the warm, metal lid, letting steam flow down the shiny surface. He is instantly wrapped in the comforting smell of onion and bay leaf that warms his very soul. The sharp, earthy bite of black pepper follows, scattered sparsely on what looks like stewed beef in a hearty mushroom sauce. It reminds him of a similar recipe Jarvis would make on freezing winter nights and just like that, the granola bar he has scarfed down fifteen minutes ago is forgotten. He is starving again. If anything, he feels as if he has been starving this entire week.

He turns around, trying his best to sound disappointed. “What part of ‘rest’ didn’t you understand?”

Thor shrugs, his attention fixed on the distant mass of shivering trees. “I threw a few random things together and kept an eye on them. The stove did most of the work.” Tony’s mild exasperation is acknowledged but addressed only after a long silence leaves a troubled imprint upon his face. “I can’t be useless right now, I’ve been there for too long. My thoughts start chasing their own tails when I have nothing to do and I’ve come too far to slip back. Call it occupational therapy.”

A shameful row of cripplingly overspecialized devices line up across Tony’s memory. “There are worse ways to fill the hours,” he agrees and rummages around a cupboard, pulling out chipped crockery. “Care to join me for dinner? Or do you want to wait for our dynamic duo?”

Thor seems to mull it over as he takes a seat behind a rickety wooden table. “There’s no point,” he replies. “Unlike us, they’ve been asleep since ten p.m. They are the smart ones around here.”

“That’s true,” Tony ladles the stew into deep plates. It tastes just as good as it smells and for a moment he feels his knees go weak. “They’re also missing out. Where did a king learn how to cook?”

“In the woods.” The answer only elicits another raised eyebrow as a humorous spark kindles in Thor’s eyes. “Once the weather got warm in Asgard, my friends and I would go hunting. We used to disappear for days, shoot some wild game, then roast it up. Or rather, Volstagg would roast it up and we all learned from him. Horrible things happened to our eyebrows back then.”

Tony chuckles at the revelation that alien gods also have at least one parent-friend in their social circle. “Let me guess, eldest kid with a throng of siblings? That’s usually how it goes.”

Thor blows on a steaming morsel on his spoon. “Not really, he just didn’t come from nobility or military. That made him the only one with actual life skills.” His mouth quirks in brief self-deprecation. “The only problem is that I only ever learned how to make anything over an open fire. When Jane and I lived together I nearly burned down the place once.”

Tony lets out a commiserating hum, scrutinizing the cabinets over the fridge. Though his avoidance of alcoholic beverages holds strong, he has found a viable compromise in a bottle of cabernet sauvignon grape must. From the thin layer of dust gathered upon it, he seems to be the only one who likes the complex, tangy taste. A dish like this, however, calls for nothing else.

“Me too,” he says, pouring up the pale imitation of wine. “Fifteen-year-old Tony Stark was not very bright and his college dorm paid the price.” He raises his drink, longing for a time when scorched curtains were his biggest problem. “Here’s to the Cambridge fire department.”

Thor mirrors his gesture with a small smile that promptly flickers out. For a good, long while, he says nothing while they both dig into the stew, pausing only to refill their glasses. Years of sneaking quick bites instead of meals drive Tony to finish up in less than five minutes but when he looks up, he finds Thor has barely touched his food. If anything, he seems miles away, staring into empty space, fingers pressed pensively against his lips.

“Do you have any idea what a Quantum Tunnel is?” he asks.

Tony sighs, mentally sifting through long-forgotten scientific papers. “What I have is a million questions. And the people with answers are nowhere to be found.” He puts his plate into the sink and tops up their glasses, finishing up the bottle. “The man you saw on the bridge is Hank Pym. He worked as a consultant for SHIELD until my father tried to replicate his tech. Can’t really blame him for holding a grudge but even if he didn’t, he’s been missing since the Blip. At this point, we have to assume he’s dead.”

“Could he have been working on something that would help us?”

“Hard to say, he was really secretive about his work. That’s how he crossed paths with Scott Lang, the guy in the red suit. He was with Steve in Berlin and I saw his obituary on the Compound’s memorial wall.” He pauses at the grim realization that the list of the people they lost never seems to get any shorter. “I suppose we’re still flying blind.”

“Fear not. We won’t be for long.”

The words are a reassurance only in the most literal sense as Thor’s spoon wanders around chunks of beef with waning enthusiasm. At first, Tony thinks he is just tired, but it does not take him long to recognize the specter of grief that lived in Thor’s eyes after he returned from the Garden. The drive and optimism that carried the three of them for the last week seem to trickle away and Tony feels his stomach clutch into a tight fist. He hates that look. It turns the force of nature he deeply cares for into a hollow shell. And it reminds him of a thoroughly rehearsed speech he never had the chance to give before Thor left Earth.

He sips the faux-cabernet sauvignon and rolls his lips over his teeth preemptively. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says, choosing to go for the cliffnotes. “Thanos, Wakanda, everything. None of that is on you.”

Thor’s chest deflates as his expression goes from thoughtful to blank. A subtle tremor touches his face before he slides the plate away. “I’ve heard those words before. I’ve also heard the opposite enough times to level the scales. When I woke up this morning, the world remained unchanged so it makes no difference who I choose to believe today. All that matters is what happens tomorrow.”

“I want you to know that no matter what happens tomorrow.”

A brief, downcast smile teases the corners of Thor’s mouth. “Where has your faith gone, Stark? Seems like you’re mourning our failure already.”

“I’m not. I just know that our worst-case scenario is multiple choice.” Tony can only shake his head at the silent question aimed at him. “It’s not a comforting thought, but we have to be ready for failure. We might run the full sequence perfectly and see nothing. Or the leads we get might not pay off.”

“Then we keep trying until they do.” The firm tone brooks no argument. “Do not ask me to give up on the universe now. I can’t.”

“I’m asking you to consider your limits. The Neuroweaver isn’t a walk in the park. Every time you put that helmet on, you’re rolling the dice for a major seizure not to mention intracerebral hemorrhage. That kind of damage compounds and your neuroplasticity won’t last forever.”

“It doesn’t have to. It just has to last long enough.”

Tony presses his lips together as empty seconds drag on into eternity. “Fine, say we don’t fail. Say we get a detailed instruction manual on how to reverse the Blip and capture it on BARF in high-definition. What then?”

“Then my work is done. And fate may do with me and she pleases.”

With those words, Thor stands up to fridge the leftovers on this plate. Tony watches him scape the congealed remains of the stew into a plastic container and waits for a hint of irony to hit his ear. The fist in his stomach tightens when he does not find any. He fears this kind of dispassionate answer, if only because a similar echo dwelled in himself not long ago. If he has learned anything from wandering around snowed-covered woods with calculated detachment, it is that such echoes can be terribly persuasive.

The chair scrapes loudly against the tiles when he stands up. “No,” he says. “No, that answer sucks and you get no points for it. Try again.”

Thor freezes in his tracks halfway to the open window. He looks genuinely confused and as the crushing silence between them becomes impossible to bear, uncertainty gives way to the palest shade of anger. “I gave you the truth,” he states coldly. “What else do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know!” Tony cards a hand through his hair, struggling against a frightening sense of futility. “How about that you plan to build something better than a tiny log cabin for yourself? That you’re excited to see Asgard in ten years. That you’ll finally tell your lovely regent how you feel. Take your pick!”

Thor blinks, thrown off balance. When he recovers, his animosity fades as he lets out a tempered laugh. “Guess clairvoyance is not just a Vanir gift. How do you know about Val?”

“The media kept speculating about you two. I took an educated guess.” Tony’s amusement is carefully restrained as he is faced with the same evasiveness that came over Thor whenever someone got a bit too nosy about Jane. “Was I wrong?”

“Does it matter?”

The blatant sincerity sinks in a painful jolt between Tony’s ribs. “Does it _matter_?” he repeats in disbelief. “It’s the only thing that matters! We’re about to send hundreds of volts through your brain and before we do that, I want to be damn sure you see a life for yourself in whatever world you wake up in.” He strides towards the god of thunder as his long-curated speech hastily reassembles itself into a new form. “You’re _not_ useless, Point Break! You never were so get that idea out of your head! Earth needs Thor Odinson. So does the rest of the known universe.”

_So do I._

The words hang in his mouth, unspoken. The dark void beyond the fluttering curtains swallows them and Tony starts to feel useless himself. The phantom phrase haunting the air between them sounds almost like a mockery of their friendship. All he has to offer is commiseration and a heaping of grim humor. He could not even muster the strength to talk to him when it would have made a real difference. Steve was the source of boundless inspiration on the team. Tony was a black cloud fueled by caffeine and sheer stubbornness.

And yet, it was his help Thor had sought out when he returned to Earth. It was his company he chose to keep during the past week. And maybe, this made all the difference in the world.

Thor’s veiled eyes rest inscrutably upon him. The weight in Tony’s chest lifts up when a faint smile peeks from the blue depths as he turns towards the naked stars. “Then it will have him, so long as it has Tony Stark. It needs him just as much.”

Tony chuckles, lifting his glass from a crimson ring stain upon the table. “A long list of people would beg to differ,” he says. “But I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

“Are you sure?”

Bruce already knows the answer. He asks merely to buy time in order to disengage himself from between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, he is not supposed to pressure patients into procedures they do not want. On the other, he is struggling to balance his medical training with profound concern as nervously passes a small flask from hand to hand. He has spent an entire afternoon perfecting the anesthesia cocktail within and though its effectiveness is still untested, it seems equally unwise to set it aside.

Thor lifts himself up on his elbows from beneath the humming Neuroweaver. “Very sure,” he says. “I have to be awake for this.”

Bruce lets out a long sigh. He had pointed out repeatedly out that it was not addictive, but his friend had remained undeterred. “I doubt this will fully knock you out, but it cannot hurt either. The test was only a quarter of the full sequence and it was traumatic enough. There’s no shame in wanting something to take the edge off.”

Thor shakes his head as he lies back on the gurney, doing his best to move his hair out of the way of the sensors. It has been trimmed just enough to be manageable but it still drapes over his shoulders in a wavy, golden mess. “It’s not about that. No one can tell if dulling my senses will affect the vision. I’d rather not risk it; we cannot rely on BARF alone.”

“Speaking of,” There’s a short click as the cover panel pops back into the base. Tony rises to his feet, pulling off protection gloves. “The integration is done. Took a few tries but everything should be running smoothly. Whatever your noggin cooks up will be stored on the hard drive and we will have front seats for the premiere.” He nods towards a tablet resting against the main console. “Are we set?”

Bruce runs a hand over the inner panels to nest the electrodes into position. “All set,” he concludes and catches the anticipation in the blue eyes. “See you on the other side?”

“Hopefully with clear answers this time.”

“Hopefully,” Bruce moves towards the console in time to see the sensors line up with their designated spots around Thor’s head. “Okay, looking good so far. I’m loading up the first electrical impulse.” He types in the code and for the second time this week feels a nervous dip beneath his ribs. “Beginning calibration in three, two, one...”

He presses the Enter key and feels the floor vibrate under his bare feet. The Neuroweaver lets out a prolonged whirr, then falls into an eerie silence as the LEDs across the helmet flash in a slow rhythm. Satisfied, he turns to the screen where the electrodes are just beginning to synch with brainwaves. One of them, having found its designated frequency, glows green. Half a minute later, a second one follows, then a third. And a fourth.

An intrusive presence blinks red at the corner of his eye.

He pays it no mind at first. The lab is packed with equipment from previous projects. They have not been used in months and he has grown used to their depleted power cells winking at him every couple of seconds. That is why it takes him minutes to notice that the persistent signal in question comes from one very specific device installed inches above the sealed door. It is a very recent addition, a hand-me-down from the Benatar, which itself used to sit in an old Xandarian vessel. The Guardians used it to scan for nearby ships. For Bruce, it was a handy detector of any surprise guests while he was working in the gamma lab. Up until now, it had only angrily blinked at fast-food delivery workers.

“Tony?” he says very slowly. “Could SHIELD have followed you here? Could anyone?”

On the opposite side of the lab, Tony stops adjusting BARF settings. Brown eyes glance up at him, perplexed. “Of course not. What’s going on?”

“Someone’s in the building.”

He dives towards a row of monitors, rushing to resurrect the neglected surveillance network. Tony’s eyebrows crease as he pulls out his smartphone, swiping through notifications. “That’s impossible, it has to be a bug in the motion sensors. The security for this place is rock solid. It would have alerted us if there was a breach.”

He says it with such certainty that it interrupts Bruce’s frantic search. A sinking realization creeps up on him as he places a disconnected monitor back against a stack of towers. “It wasn’t a breach. They had the codes.”

“What? Who...?” Tony clams up. A different realization settles upon his stunned expression and for a moment, he descends into a nervous chuckle. “This is a prank, right? You gotta be kidding me right now.”

Bruce drops his head into his hand so hard he hurts the bridge of his nose. “It’s not what you think. Natasha and I pretty much became shut-ins after the Blip so we made a pact to meet every month.” He trails off, briefly mourning the detailed plan to unveil his new form. “She must have thought something was wrong when I didn’t show up at the Compound. It was my turn to drag her away from her screens.”

He looks up at Tony, who is still staring at him like he has grown an extra head. “Eight days, Bruce! We’ve been here for eight days and you didn’t think to bring it up?”

His voice is in freefall from nervousness into utter disbelief. The stress piling up on Bruce’s shoulders over the past days finally breaks his back as he shoots him a frustrated glare. “I don’t have an AI secretary,” he snaps. “There were a million other things on my mind! You two came here, turned my life upside down and I forgot my own name! You try keeping track of everything when...”

A loud thump silences both him and Tony’s incoming rebuttal. They turn around in unison to hear ghosts of footsteps roam impatiently on the other side of the lab’s armored door. It does not take long for a rumble to travel across the tiles as the gigantic bolts twist in their slots. First-grade steel sixty inches thick groans and slides aside before heavy boots clatter on the floor and Steve Rogers bursts through.

He freezes to a halt at the sight of Bruce, three steps past the doorway. Icy blue eyes bear the disoriented look of a man who expected to meet mortal danger but found empty air instead. They survey the room in mute shock before pinning a question on Tony. Bruce can see he fears an honest answer.

Behind him, Natasha’s cool demeanor never cracks. She walks in at a slow, steady pace, leaving dusty footprints in her wake. A shadow flickers across her face when he notices the Avenger hooked to the Neuroweaver. The soft line of her lips is suddenly beset by an unspoken tension.

“Alright,” she states calmly. “Here’s where you say you can explain.”

* * *

The words are clearly aimed at Bruce. Tony can tell as much and as the woman’s chestnut glare locks on the scientist from across the lab, Tony can also tell he is not ready for this. His friend is, first and foremost a thinker. His brain is a neatly organized database where everything has its place and every piece of information is linked to proper context. Asking him to summarize a complex concept in layman’s terms often required fifteen minutes in which diagrams were scribbled on napkins and citations somehow appeared at the end of each sentence. This malady often translated to every other aspect of his life and right now, it is hopelessly jamming the gears in his head as they try to cobble together a quick explanation. Judging by the anxiety mounting behind the green eyes, it is not coming any time soon.

Tony suffers from no such maladies. Years of dealing with the press have given him the questionable talent to fast-talk his way out of messy situations until he had the chance to deal with them. The trick is not likely to work on the Avengers but he hopes it might grant him some time when he steps forward to come to Bruce’s rescue.

“You’re right,” he says, raising his hands in a peaceful gesture. “You’re absolutely right, but you caught us at the worst possible time. Come back in forty-seven minutes, we’ll give you a full-on presentation. Deal?”

He looks up at Bruce for support but knows it is not enough when Steve barely acknowledges his attempt to play things down. “Do you think this is funny?”

Cold restraint permeates every syllable. Tony runs an unnerved hand over his face as he glances at the main console through splayed fingers. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t. I think this is incredibly delicate and unpredictable. Maybe we can leave the ‘disappointed in you’ talk for later?”

“You lost that privilege after Ultron.” His tone is a freshly sharpened blade. “Whatever you’re both doing stops now.”

He moves towards the Neuroweaver, jaw set tight beneath steely eyes. He does not get far before Bruce’s hand closes tight on the shoulder clad in blue armor. “It’s too late for that. What you’re looking at is the closest thing we’ll ever have to psychic surgery. We need to see this process through to the end.”

Steve looks up in vague bewilderment, carefully freeing himself from his hold. Tony gets the feeling he is still processing Bruce’s changed appearance but chooses to deal with what is in front of him. “Never create anything you cannot deactivate at any moment,” he says. “Those are your words. I know you wouldn’t build anything without a failsafe.”

Panic begins to grasp Tony’s insides as the man moves closer. “It doesn’t work like that. We don’t know what kind of damage we could do if we interrupt the calibration!” He impulsively places himself between him and the machine, as his bargaining turns into a plea. “Steve, listen to me! You thought what happened to Barnes was bad? This is in the same wheelhouse but kicked up a few scary notches. We can’t just unplug him like a malfunctioning toaster!”

It gets him what he wanted in record time. Steve stops, as if blocked by an invisible wall, his expression haunted. Guilt wells up in Tony’s chest, hot and sharp. Mentioning Bucky was a dirty trick but it had been the last resort to make him understand. It is only a few moments later, when Steve’s eyes lock upon the Neuroweaver that he realizes he has miscalculated by a much wider margin. They all saw the crude version of the device at Strucker’s castle. They had all cataloged it, digested it, and chose to forget. Not even Wanda talked about it much, reluctant to stir up her trauma or to remind anyone of her connection to HYDRA. However, as Tony watches Steve go deathly pale under his helmet, he can see that connection rearing its ugly head.

His gloved fingers close tightly over the shield. “Tony…what have you done?”

It is a purely rhetorical question. There’s danger in his eyes, Tony can feel it on him like the sting of Siberian snow and he wonders if will even have time to activate the armor. His nanobots work fast, but they are still dependent on human reflexes and Steve stands too close for him to move a muscle before the shield cracks the plate that holds them beneath his shirt. He fumbles for an explanation, rough drafts burning in his head, like they did all those years ago and his heart sinks as he readies himself for a confrontation he hopes to steer out of the lab. He knows a losing situation when he sees one. The time for talking is long past.

Or so he thinks until he hears movement at his back. The sound of ripped medical tape precedes a firm grasp on his shoulder. A moment later, he is nudged aside.

Thor stands beside him, eyes clouded by pain. He has not managed to make it far from the gurney and even as he puts a protective arm in front of Tony, he looks like he is about to collapse. The sensors still cling to his skin, connected to the helmet by thin, white cables. Behind him, the Neuroweaver’s soft hum gradually rises to a growl.

“They’ve done what I asked them to.” Every word seems like a conscious effort. He takes another step as if wading through a thick marsh and sucks in an unsteady breath. “Stay your hand, my friend. If your anger needs a target, let it be someone who deserves to bear it.”

Steve’s stony glare is broken up by shock. The shield returns to its place on his back and he pulls his helmet off in sheer frustration. “What...?” he utters. “Thor, what the hell is happening? Why would you of all people…?”

He is cut short by an ear-splitting lament from the Neuroweaver. Thor’s hand grasps his left temple as if it has just been pierced through. “I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I wish I could have confided in you but I doubt we would have seen eye to eye. I know you have questions and I swear on my mother’s grave that you will have your answers. But for now, please...”

His voice peters out into a hoarse murmur. An ashen shroud descends over his face as his already precarious balance falters and he sways, eyes glazing over. He is saved from hitting the floor only by Bruce, who moves faster than any of them and wraps an arm around Thor’s shoulders. The blond head lolls forward, lifeless, as he sinks into the steadying embrace. At his back, the smooth nerves or the Neuroweaver protest, pulled dangerously close to their snapping point.

“It’s okay. I got you.” Bruce’s reassuring tone is undercut by a hint of dread when he very gently shakes the unresponsive frame in his arms. “Thor? Are you with me?”

“Banner…”

Tony almost does not hear him. The name is a whisper, drowning in the rising roar of the machine, still in the middle of calibration. It has been at it for almost five minutes, far longer than expected and from what he can tell, it is nowhere near its halfway point. Bruce’s comments about the importance of a calm state of mind return to sound a grim alarm bell. No amount of meditation could help now. No sedative could restore what was lost.

He swears profusely under his breath. This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all but as he watches Steve’s combative demeanor shift when he moves to Thor’s side, he hopes they can still salvage this mess. They can abort the sequence once the calibration is over. They can bring everyone up to speed, make their case and try again later. Maybe they can even retool the cumbersome first step to be way shorter.

He is about to check the progress on the main console again when he sees the first drop of blood.

It lands on the white tiles under Thor’s limp head, a bright, striking shade of crimson. Another soon follows and with it a familiar sensation of insects roaming over his scalp as something akin to frost nips at his skin. The hair at the back of his arms stands on end. Dry, leathery air fills his lungs as he breathes out another curse and drops to a crouch beside Thor.

“Sunshine! _Hey..._ ” Tony still cannot see his face, but he knows what he is going to find when he parts the shaggy mane of blond hair. He’s seen him bleed like that before, recognizes the disoriented look in the dilated pupils. He knows what comes next and for once, he is infinitely grateful they are ready for it. The portable cooling unit with acetaminophen and emergency ice packs is somewhere just behind the console. All he has to do is find it and...

The next drop of crimson hovers in midair.

He is immediately hurled back with the force of a hurricane. Fireworks bloom before his eyes as he slams hard against a wall. He can feel glass raining over his head when old fluorescent fixtures begin to pop on the ceiling one after another and instinctively raises his hands to protect himself. Natasha’s reflexes surpass his as she lunges forward, shielding him from the worst of it before swiping the shards off her back and pulling him away from harm.

“Still waiting on that explanation,” she pants. “What’s wrong with him?”

Tony furiously shakes his head, fighting a losing battle with the ringing in his ears. He looks up to see Steve and Bruce picking themselves up from the floor in opposite corners of the lab. They shamble around, still stunned from the shockwave but as their eyes meet, they both bear the same confused discomfort. The frost on Tony’s exposed arms grows fangs. Shattered glass that lay at his feet a moment ago, now floats at eye level, pulled upwards by the growing magnetic field.

Thor kneels in the middle of the lab, right where Bruce has left him. The wires tethering him to the helmet have finally given way and now hang in torn strands all over his body. Tony can see him shivering violently as if ravaged by the same kind of blizzard that never left the craggy hill over New Asgard. Blood runs in thick streams over his lips and chin when he looks up. Unseeing eyes burn with white, hot fire until another spasm drops his head to his chest.

In the last seconds of dead silence that follow, Tony hears him mutter “Run”.

Lightning strikes the Neuroweaver in a surge of eye-searing light. It cracks the helmet in half, releasing a cloud of sparks. The smell of charred circuits floods the air as, to his left, a pile of oxygen synthesizers bursts like a balloon, sending shrapnel flying across the lab. Blue flames rise up and are extinguished by the sprinklers on the ceiling but not before they too explode. Thin, watery mist falls around them as electricity dances erratically around Thor’s shaking form. When the reaction makes its way towards the rest of the equipment, Tony hears it crack and sputter.

They can’t get close to him, he realizes with a sinking feeling. Even from where he is standing, the magnetic field is like a rough sea pushing them away as a web of lightning closes over Thor like a trap. His head is starting to swim from the ozone. The clumps of dust caked on his shoes are now airborne as well.

Steve scrambles towards Tony and Natasha, boots sliding on the wet floor. He and Bruce exchange a look that speaks of a decision made. “We have to go. Now!”

Tony suppresses a choked cough brought on by a gust of acrid smoke. “What do you mean ‘go’? Are we leaving Thor behind?”

Bruce’s eyes darken as he types up a code on the inner panel of the security system. “We have to! I don’t know what’s going on but he’s become his own natural disaster. We need to contain it before it spreads beyond the lab.”

The panel burns green, accepting the code. The steel door moves at a maddeningly slow speed, dragging itself open by fractions of an inch per second. The electrical storm raging inside the lab must have affected the mechanism, granting Tony time to chase a solution that eludes him as lightning forks in irregular patterns among the walls. The gears at the base of the Neuroweaver start to rattle as magnetic forces pull them apart. The screws keeping the device grounded are slowly but surely being drawn out.

“We can’t just lock him in here!” he protests. “You saw the blood! He needs medical attention!”

On the storage side of the room, an accumulator blows to pieces. Its remains tear through the thick curtain of water at the speed of bullets as Bruce pulls the group closer to protect them. “I’ll stay!” he shouts through the deafening roar. “I’m the only one who can. If this field touches any of you, you’ll burn from the inside out.”

“The suit can take it!”

The words leave Tony’s mouth just as the nanobots begin to assemble the armor. They stop at the presence of Steve’s intrusive grasp on his arm. “You don’t know that! Once that door is sealed, it won’t open until the threat is neutralized. I won’t have your death on my hands!”

“No, you won’t! It’s not your decision.”

He tries to pull himself loose but the man’s hold is iron. “Must you fight me on everything? How do you think Thor would feel if his powers killed you? Or any of us?”

Blue eyes burn into him, relentless and Tony’s throat closes up. Charged drops of water sting their way down his cheeks as impotence and anger root him to the spot. He is right. He hates it when he is right. It happens way too often.

A golden beam of light falls across the flooded tiles from the other side of the door. He watches Natasha squeeze her way past the narrow crack and reach towards them with urgency. “Come on!”

The rest of her words do not register as the walls groan under the strain of the energy field. This time, Tony can feel his jawbone rattle. Dead nanobots rain from his arms in a thin stream of metallic sand while he tries to establish how long it would take FRIDAY to evaluate the limits of the suit against the current environment. Two minutes, probably less. He can try recalibrating on the fly. He can...

Steve pulls at him with the strength that rivals Hulk. “Now, Tony!”

Harsh, undeniable reality compels him to give up. He complies through gritted teeth, stumbling through the narrow gap just as another incandescent spear pierces the Neuroweaver. What little remains of the helmet falls to misshapen bits, blue fire creeping up the cables hooked to Thor. He catches one last glimpse of Bruce, walking towards the god of thunder, untouched by the growing chaos before the door screams on suffering bolts and slams shut.

A moment later, the lights go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the immortal words of Scott Lang "Whoops!"
> 
> And so, I'm off to write the very last (yes, last, I promise) chapter of this beast that was supposed to be a two-shot. If you're still with this fic, you have my most profound thanks. Please leave a comment if you liked it!! Mama needs her serotonin if she is to make progress on the conclusion. :)
> 
> Seriously though, thank you for sticking with me. Thor content is almost nonexistent on AO3 and God knows I would not have made it this far into this fic or any fic without your support.
> 
> Love y'all. See you (hopefully) in 3 months.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a poll for all the lovely people that follow me on Twitter asking if you wanted me to structure the finale into two chapters (a long one and a shorter one) or into three even-sized chapters. The latter option won so this is the first of those chapters. 
> 
> Yes, I said three. Yes, I know. My whump muse wakes up every morning and chooses violence. I am merely a vessel for whatever she decides to inflict on my poor, poor sparkly sunshine.

Something cracks loudly under Tony’s shoe.

It sounds small and fragile, just like the model airplane that once met a similar fate when he was in middle school. He winces in mourning for whatever gadget he just destroyed but does not stop to examine it. The basement of the engineering wing is not the tidiest place at the best of times and has become significantly less so once he claimed it as his workshop. The emergency illumination strips that run along the floor prove of little help against the army of lathes and plasma cutters which devolve into vague shapes in the dark, ready to snag on their clothes. Blurred shadows contort on the walls as he and Natasha advance slowly, feeling out the floor with their feet. Every once in a while, she swears when she steps in a nest of cables and has to stop to disentangle herself. He does not fare much better when he hip-checks the workbench and sucks in a pained curse. 

“Do you see it?” he asks.

Some more angry muttering ensues as Natasha’s silhouette stumbles into a pile of cardboard boxes. She deftly kicks them aside and makes her way towards a circuit breaker box under a glowing sign. Tony hears her undo the latch on the lock, then break into a violent cough as the pungent smell of burning plastic seeps into the air.

He cranes his neck, trying to follow her movements. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

She throws him a thumbs up and darts back to scan the green gloom. A long bout of rummaging noises ends with the sound of a metal hinge being released and a sharp hiss. Flecks of carbon dioxide snow speckle the wall, accurately conveying depressing prospects. None of the efforts to protect their power supply had worked. The storm raging inside the Neuroweaver chamber had blown past every safety barrier and even now is struggling to escape its confinement. On their way to the engineering wing, he had caught glimpses of rain battering the windows and heard thunder growl from behind iron clouds. If he listens closely, he can still hear its faint echoes over the lab. He does not know how to interpret them growing weaker with every passing minute.

He pulls himself away from encroaching dejection the only way he knows how. “How bad is it? On a scale from one to ten.”

“I’m not a techie but I know these things aren’t supposed to melt.” Natasha steps away from the panel and sets the fire extinguisher down with a heavy clang. “Guess it’s not going to be a quick fix after all.”

Tony follows the thin beam of her flashlight as it glides across the smoking fuses, exposing the damage in all its gruesome details. “Or a slow one. You’re looking at three days' work minimum, more if the entire wiring network got scorched.” He rubs at his watering eyes before navigating the clutter towards another sign, tucked away in a corner. “Never fear, we got a solid plan B.”

The generator’s metal cladding feels funny in the dark. He is compelled to blame the remnants of adrenaline still coursing through him but suspects other forces at play when familiar pins and needles prick the tips of his fingers. He has no name or coherent explanation for the energy steadily leaking through the building, only the certainty that it rendered half his armor useless and is behind the entropy field that shortens the lifespan of all electronics in Thor’s path. The thought of it being tied to the storm outside is not encouraging. 

He slides out the cover and sighs in relief at the soft, blue light spilling over his hands. It’s good to know that no matter what shenanigans the universe throws at him, there is one thing he can always count on. 

Natasha’s spindly shadow falls over the control panel as she looks over his shoulder. “Is that an arc reactor?”

He nods, reaching over to the nearest socket where a current detector flashes in a quick, panicked pattern. “One of the smaller models. It was supposed to activate right when we lost power but we got hit so hard it fried even the commanding receptor.” He flips a heavy switch and hears the battery purr as the manual override sequence kicks off. “That’s probably not great news.”

“You said the power went out last time too. For all we know, this is normal.”

It is a brave attempt at reassurance. Tony is grateful for the effort, though it does little to quell the trepidation, slowly but surely pushing its way past layers of analytical thought. The power outage had been a blessing in disguise. It gave him an urgent task to focus on but now that the generator is stirring from its slumber, the demon dogs are back as is every worst-case scenario he had meticulously compiled night after night. It all comes home to roost when he inputs the wrong identification code twice and the screen scolds him with a warning sign.

“Sonofa…” He corrects his mistake and drops his head in his palm. “All we know is not a lot, Nat. That’s part of the problem with space magic.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“It’s what Thor's calling it. I honestly can’t find anything more fitting.”

She lets out a strained chuckle, pushing away a wavy strand from her face. Clumps of dry snow still cling to it, giving her auburn hair premature gray streaks. “Fair enough,” she says, “but space magic or not, you shouldn’t worry so much. Whatever happened back there, Bruce has it handled. You’re no help to anyone wound up like a spring.”

Warm, brown eyes meet his over the wandering beam of the flashlight. Tony sits down beside the rumbling device, weaving his hands over his knees. Her logic is bulletproof but logic is a very distant voice now, drifting further with every murmur of the storm. He would put his life in Bruce’s hands any day. It just so happens that today, his medical deck is torn apart and an unstable energy field is standing in his path.

Futility burns in his constricted chest, locking his thoughts in a tight, resentful loop. He was actually there last time. Caught off-guard, scrambling like a man on a sinking ship, but he was there. Now he is stuck waiting, locked out of the operating room he helped build, and though his help would have likely been limited, shackled uncertainty eats away at him faster than panic ever could. The only thing worse than a complete lack of information was limited information. An overactive mind could spin terrible pictures out of that.

He sighs as the confirmation screen vanishes into a loading bar. “Remember when that HYDRA goon took a chunk out of Clint in Sokovia? We trusted Helen like one of our own and still we didn’t breathe easy until she confirmed he would recover.” He rests his forehead against cold fingers, staring numbly into the black pit beyond their small island of light. “He’s been AWOL for what, three years now? In all that time, did you ever stop worrying about him?”

He watches Natasha blink back the subtle threat of tears. The shadows streaming around her in the dim light of the arc reactor grow still as she presses her knuckles to her lips in thought. “Not for one day,” she admits, “but this is Thor we’re talking about. He’s made of stronger stuff than the rest of us. You wouldn’t have rebuilt that machine if you didn’t believe that.”

Tony shakes his head as rows of LEDs blink along the sides of the power cells. “It wasn’t because I thought he was invincible. The godlike alien shtick can be very convincing but everyone has their breaking point. And Thor’s been through hell and back for the past couple of years.” He glances up at the concrete ceiling at the sound of thunder rolling over unseen clouds. “Some storms are so powerful they tear themselves apart. If that is what he’s up against, Asgardian physiology won’t protect him for long.”

“So you knew this could happen and still took the risk.” There is no judgment in her voice but the question hanging in the pregnant silence is unmistakable.  _ Why? _

Tony pauses to gather an answer but, even in his own head, he does not get too far. Underneath his honest desire to keep Thor safe lies a deeply personal feeling that defies all explanation. Natasha can probably sense it too, since a small smile touches her lips as she sits there, watching him flounder. Her inquisitorial gaze upon him is only broken when the reactor chooses to come alive.

It gives out a low, tortured whine and flickers like a flame under a gale. The erratic dance of light and darkness lasts long enough for Tony to start worrying before a blinding flash bursts from it, searing away their shadows on the wall. The generator rattles on short, stubby legs and after a few seconds, the basement luminaires wake up. Tony squints under their onslaught, hissing in discomfort as he pulls himself to his feet from the grimy floor. The ragtag army of words banded together in his mind scatters until only the simplest ones remain.

“Because I believe in him,” he replies. “We should head back. Cap’s waiting.”

* * *

Steve Rogers is a tiger in a cage.

Tony can tell as much from the moment he spots the man walking back and forth along the hallway leading up to the Neuroweaver chamber. The heavy combat boots have already left a disturbingly even set of footprints and the only reason they appear to be fading is that the leaked machine oil that stains them is rubbing off. It is not a sight Tony is used to and it unnerves him a bit as they exchange a brief, tense greeting under the neat row of ceiling lamps. Now that they are operational again, they cast the kind of sterile glow that sharpens every line and makes the reasonably warm lab feel cold. The white tiles under their feet serve only to amplify the effect as he finds himself growing increasingly irritable. He really made the place look like the waiting room of a hospital. And he had not even been smart enough to put in chairs.

Steve ends his restless pacing beside a dead screen the size of a tablet mounted beside the steel door. Thin spider cracks spring up from the middle and run across it in all directions as if the dull, black surface had been pricked by a needle. “I tried contacting them,” he says. “The intercommunicator must be busted, I only got static.”

Tony taps the receiver panel half-heartedly and feels the same odd sensation that met him at the generator travel over his skin. He fiddles with the idea of returning to his workshop and attempting to restore the video feed but quickly sets it aside. Even if the wiring network survived, the monitors inside the chamber certainly did not.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he says. “That energy field does not play well with electronics, it pulled the Neuroweaver apart like a toy.” He glances up at a rectangular beacon burning bright over the sealed door like an ominous, red eye. “See that? It’s connected to a sensor panel that measures the conditions in the lab. Until that thing turns green, the locking mechanism will not budge unless we literally nuke the entire building. Even then, I’m sure this chamber would still be standing.”

He trails off, noticing Steve is not listening. His lips, pressed into a firm, tight line, seem to be holding back words he might regret. Despite his best efforts, they brim over in a cold, hard stare. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Tony breathes out a dejected sigh. He desperately wants to avoid an argument but knows he is headed for one regardless. “I already explained everything. Do we really need to go over it again?”

His despondent tone sidles too close to sarcasm. Steve’s face locks into a stiff mask. “You justified your actions, that is not the same thing. Coming here, bringing Bruce into it again… Do you even realize what you’ve done?”

“I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

“You enabled an unstable man’s delusion!” He rarely hears Steve raise his voice, but when he does, it could command the Earth itself to stand still. “How could you even consider this idea? Why didn’t you call me the moment he brought it up? I could have helped!”

The raw anger radiating from the blue eyes roots Tony to the spot. It kindles, as the man waits for him to answer but as he turns away in frustration, it prompts a pang of sympathy. Tony is well-acquainted with the hollow feeling that clenches Steve’s fingers and guides his feet into an aimless march across the floor. It is the same feeling that turns Natasha into a statue, leaning against the far end of the hallway, keeping a close watch on the beacon’s crimson shadow upon the tiles. The endless wait is driving them all mad. As is the shared, unspoken knowledge that the longer it goes on, the grimmer its outcome may be.

He rubs the spot between his eyebrows where tension is blooming into a headache. “This may be hard to hear,” he says, “but Thor was right back there. We both know what would have happened if we told you. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Steve lets out a curt, breathless laugh. Betrayal twists the corners of his mouth into a sharp angle. “Really? You honestly think I can’t understand what he’s going through?” He runs a hand through his hair, clutching at blond strands. “Tony, I lost my entire world when I went in the ice. Lost friends to the Blip too. I know exactly what survivor’s guilt does. Why would you feed into it?”

He voices the question like a tired adult berating a clueless teenager for the hundredth time about an obvious danger. The thought ignites a spark in Tony’s blood that is hard to keep contained. “You want to talk about survivor's guilt?” he snaps. “You put Thor in a room full of people whose losses he feels personally responsible for! Do you think that helped? Did you do that before or after you decided he was delusional?”

“He was tailspinning into an early grave! The group was supposed to be the first step out.” The hand pointing straight to the steel barrier does not remain steady for long. “What’s on the other side of that door is nothing but an elaborate suicide attempt. You have to know that on some level!”

There is a fatal echo in his voice, one that Tony has not heard since he stumbled down the ramp of the Benatar. It speaks of hopelessness, of numbness in the face of defeat and for a moment, it plucks at a muted string. Doubt creeps up on him, cold and slimy, just enough to send poisonous ripples across his mind. His first impulse when he reunited with Thor at the dilapidated Sokovian castle was to get him out of there and slam the door shut forever. He knows the reason. He has tried very hard to slam the door on that thought as well.

“It’s not,” he mutters. “No, it’s not, we were so  _ close _ . Everything was going according to plan until you decided to pull the plug on a process you don’t understand. If you could have just given us  _ five minutes _ !”

“I was trying to save Thor’s life!”

“So was I! In case you didn’t notice, he came to me and not you. Why do you think that is?”

Whatever answer bobs in Steve’s throat never comes to the surface as he rests a gloved hand against the lusterless screen of the intercom. “I don’t know,” he says, “but it was a mistake. Maybe he could have used a talk with someone who is trying to move on instead of clinging to false hope. Have you thought about that?”

“Maybe he could have used a friend, not a life-coach.”

The words are a product of mindless anger. Or that is what Tony tries to tell himself as he watches Steve’s jaw set and his lips trace another hard line. He wants to say he regrets them, but knows that to be another lie. Anger might have driven him but they were carefully selected stakes and they ring as true as the anxious storm stirring in his chest while minutes stretch on the digital clock over the door. Despite his perceived self-awareness, he turns out to be just as vulnerable to its steady march as the rest of the team.

Perhaps he should give restoring the surveillance circuit a shot. Anything would be better than staying under the gelid light with the aftermath of his outburst eating at his skin.

He is ready to do just that when he catches Natasha’s meaningful glare as she looks over his shoulder. It is only then that he realizes that the red beacon is turned off.

It stays dormant for a while, stuck on a threshold it cannot define. Tony picks up a low, whistling cadence, giant air filters spinning feverishly behind the grated ceiling of the chamber. It lasts for less than a minute before the beacon starts flickering again and finally burns a bright, triumphant green.

The thick set of bolts sealing the entrance screech and moan in their slots. Slowly, as if every inch was an insurmountable effort, the massive steel slab drags itself open.

* * *

This is the most vivid, most lucid dream Thor has ever had.

The sensation is not entirely new. He has a vague recollection of experiencing it before but details elude him as his mind molds around his new circumstances, like water in a glass. Distant pain haunts him, a phantom of an old wound thudding around his temples, though he is no longer sure what caused it. The more he tries to remember, the faster it slips away and what fills its place is a gentle firelight, burning softly behind his eyes. As it flows over him, warm and comforting, like the embrace of an old friend, he wishes never to part with it again.

A pair of rusted hinges wail in the gray-tinted dark. He stands in a narrow doorway, nose twitching at the stale, thin air that meets him on the other side. He feels like he is walking into an ancient tomb, even if it is located below an abandoned office building in San Francisco. After his eyes adjust to the sparse light, he decides it is not an apt comparison. Such tombs were ornate marvels of engineering, constructed for wise monarchs or legendary warriors. The low-ceilinged parking lot before him is more akin to a cemetery for hundreds of vehicles crammed tightly between mold-stained walls. Dead headlights peer from every corner, so grimy they fail to reflect the oily light pooling under old lightbulbs. Judging by the dust blanketing the concrete, nobody has been here in a long time.

Natasha walks ahead, surveying the lot with sharp eyes. Disgust crosses her face and Thor wonders if she too cannot ignore the sickeningly sweet presence in the air barely masked by the stench of gasoline and old tires. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” she asks.

Thor nods, turning towards the weathered door. Despite the peeled paint, the image of a tow truck set is still visible in between streaks of rusted metal. It had taken a much simpler shape in his vision. Upon closer inspection, he realizes that the rising sun behind it is stylized to resemble a toothed gear wheel.

“I’m sure,” he says. “I remember this image.”

Behind him, Tony’s loud footsteps come to a halt. The nanomachines pull the visor away revealing a look of profound distaste. “That’s the logo of Giveascrap,” he says and chuckles at Thor’s blank stare. “It’s a scrap processing company, they’ve been hauling away abandoned cars since the Blip. I spoke to the regional manager and she confirmed that two years ago they towed a brown Ford Ecoline from a bridge. Just like you described, it had a dent on the left side and a toy ant hanging from the rear view mirror.” He lets out a brief, but eloquent sigh. “Not the most inconspicuous thing if you ask me.”

Natasha frowns and cranes her neck towards the rows of half-dismantled frames. “Do we know if it’s still here? Two years ago is a long time, they might have hacked it up for parts already.”

“They didn’t have the time.” Tony taps a panel on his wrist. “Shortly after it got here, people started getting weird headaches. Their CEO dragged his feet for months until union raised hell on Earth and forced him to close this entire lot. Hell of a smart move if you ask me.” He skims a sequence of numbers flickering over the screen and clicks his tongue. “There’s some kind of weird energy here, it’s messing up all of my readings. I’ll bet you ten bucks it’s coming from that van.”

Natasha shoots him a worried look. “Is it radiation?”

“It doesn’t behave like any I’ve ever seen. FRIDAY says it’s not strong enough to be outright harmful. Of course, it’s a different story if you’re pulling double shifts and no one looks closely at your working conditions.” The elusive source of the smell turning their stomachs is revealed when Tony grimaces and kicks aside the decomposing corpse of a rat. “Ever heard of a canary in a coalmine?”

“Is that why we’re using this?”

She nods towards the thick, red line drawing a wide circle around them in laser light. Tony shrugs. “Better be safe than sorry. That decontamination field is not perfect but it will filter most of whatever nastiness we’re swimming in. Just don’t cross the safety perimeter and you’ll be fine.” He turns around again to pin a stern look at Thor. “You too, sunshine. You’re not as invulnerable as you think.”

“I never claimed I was.” Thor walks up to join him before a parking barrier. “I suppose that means we can’t split up.”

With a flick of Tony’s wrist, the panel over his arm blinks closed. A small fleet of paper-thin drones breaks away from the power suit and folds out long, papery wings. Fuzzy, blue light pours out of them, brightening up the cavernous space. A sigh escapes him as he takes in the size of the scrap graveyard

“Not really,” he replies. “Let’s hope your sixth sense has left you some breadcrumbs.”

It takes them less than half an hour to find what they are looking for. The employees who towed the battered Ford Ecoline must have had an inkling that it was special since they bothered to fence it off from the rest of the vehicles. Its sorry shape sits inside a chain link enclosure, caked in a thick layer of mud that pulls off the paint as it sloughs off. The intuition of the Giveascrap workers did not extend to handling the van carefully as it bears a lot more dents than Thor can recall. Around it, a console and wreaths of cables lie on top of one another. Not far, another rat lies very still.

He reaches into the tangled mess of wires and pulls out the heavy console. “Open the back doors,” he instructs Tony and Natasha. “And keep the space behind them clear.”

They do as he says while Thor settles the console on the floor. He can see them share a nervous look and feels apprehension tickle his hands. Up to this point, he had not allowed himself anything except cautious optimism, which now, hung by a very thin thread. He is a bit comforted to know that he is not the only one feeling like the world is about to drop out from under him.

His fingers glide over the keyboard, typing up the full sequence. The longest five seconds of his life go by until the tunnel nested inside the van rumbles and flashes intermittently. A deep, ominous crackle follows like a dry, coughing fit in a metal chest. The van shakes on deflated tires before letting out a wheezing sound and spitting out a gaunt-faced Scott Lang.

Thor cannot help it, he laughs. Relief washes over him like a tidal wave, so heavy and overwhelming, it robs him of any presence of mind. This leaves Tony to leap forward and drag the disoriented denizen of the Quantum Tunnel inside the red circle. The black-haired man stumbles on unsteady legs, sinking against the power armor as bleary eyes blink heavily. 

“Easy there, Tiny Tim. That must have been quite a trip.” Tony pulls him upright and clasps his hands around slender shoulders. His uneasiness has melted away into a wide, toothy grin. “I gotta say, I never thought I’d be this glad to see you again.”

Scott does not seem to share his elation. Confusion deepens his features and becomes distress when he frees himself from Tony’s grasp. “Stark?” he mutters. “What’s going on? Where is everyone?”

He hisses in pain, rubbing the side of his face where it has collided against the armor. A cloud passes over Tony’s face. “We don’t know,” he says. “It’s okay, just catch your breath for a moment. I’ll explain everything soon.”

Something sharp surfaces in Scott’s eyes as he straightens himself. “No,” he retorts, “you’ll explain everything now. I know you are pissed at me but whatever beef we have does not need to touch my friends. They haven’t come close to violating the Accords.” He casts a quick look around, only now becoming aware of their surroundings. “If you threw Hope and her family in the Raft...”

He trails off, threat dangling in the musty air as Natasha’s gaze locks with his. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” she says. “You’ve been gone for a long time. We’ll bring you up to speed on the flight back to New York.”

Scott regards her with dull shock. He swallows his next question when he spots Thor walking towards them. Jittery indecision takes hold of his feet, as if he cannot decide whether to back away or not. In the end, he stands rooted to the spot, black eyes ablaze with something between awe and careful apprehension.

“I thought you were off-world,” he says. “You missed one hell of a showdown in Berlin. Though it would have been a lot shorter with you around.” A nervous chuckle escapes his chest as he fishes for words. “Hey, just out of curiosity, who would you have sided with?”

Thor opens his mouth but no words come out. The events of the clash between Steve and Tony had reached him in bits and pieces and the political climate leading up to it had thoroughly disintegrated after Thanos made his move on Earth. He had pondered that very same question from time to time, but if he is completely honest with himself, he is glad that he never had to make that decision. He is saved from making it now by Tony raising his hand to put the subject to rest.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “We have bigger fish to fry. And we need all the allies we can get.”

“Is that why you left me in the Quantum Realm until now? Because it sure as hell could not have been Hope’s idea.” A deeper shadow settles on face as the reality of those words begins to sink in and suddenly, he looks impatient to leave. “Give me a break, Stark. I have a daughter who must be worried sick and you have a living god on your side. I’d say you’re doing just fine.”

He turns towards the jagged opening in the chain-link fence only for Thor to lay a hand upon his shoulder. “Your daughter is safe. We’ll take you to her but we’re going to need your help afterwards. The universe took a big hit three years ago. I think you can help us right the balance.”

Scott stops dead in his tracks, visible conflict locking his limbs. “What do you mean three years?” he utters in an almost helpless tone. “What do you guys even want from me?”

Thor shakes his head in the ever-shifting glow of drones that hover around them like mechanical dragonflies. “My vision has led me to you for a reason,” he says. “I hope we can find it together.”

* * *

The scene Tony finds behind the steel door looks like the aftermath of a hurricane. 

For one, the chamber is drenched to the core. The rows of narrow grates built along the floor haven’t had enough time to drink up the spoils of the fire suppression system. Tony’s rubber soles skid on the slick surface from the moment he walks in, followed closely by Steve and Natasha. The brittle crunch of broken glass punctuates their footsteps as they hurriedly clear a path through the jagged debris that litters every square inch of the lab. Despite the constant whine of air filters, ozone still hangs in the air, thick and sharp, a lingering specter of a storm.

He does not see Bruce immediately and that worries him. His new hulking frame should be the furthest thing from inconspicuous but even with their power restored, he has to strain his eyes. The nameless energy field has not been kind to the illumination. A good part of in-built LEDs are now hollow eyes and the surviving luminaires dangle perilously from sparking cables, flickering as they struggle against the sway of gravity. For a heart-stopping moment, Tony suspects his friend is buried under some gutted piece of machinery until he pushes aside a console blocking his view and finds him knelt down before the mangled wreck of the Neuroweaver. The back of his once pristine labcoat bears a large streak of machine oil from where he was smashed into a generator by the first shockwave. Even from where he is standing, Tony can see the tension built behind it, an unstoppable force fallen prey to sheer impotence. His sleeves are liberally spattered with crimson.

He rushes ahead of his teammates, ducks under a fragile beam and drops down to check on him. The scientist does not even look up, hands moving in quick, busy succession. It does not take Tony long to understand that he is unharmed. The knowledge brings no comfort as he realizes what Bruce is hovering over. 

The image comes in disjointed pieces, as if to spare him from processing the full sight at once. A nasty gash torn in old jeans, probably by a sharp piece of shrapnel. An exposed shoulder where a live cable has burned the fabric away, leaving a blackened trail on the flesh beneath. A limp, motionless hand that has been hastily bandaged up. Dozens of thin cuts from the rain of broken glass still trace along the arm, a grisly map upon pale skin.

Another shaky step brings him closer to where Thor’s crumpled form is deathly, frighteningly still. He lies in the same spot where his knees had given out during his confrontation with Steve, among scattered medical instruments and wrenched-out cogs. His bloodied face is turned towards the distorted frame of the Neuroweaver, cheek pressed against the cold tiles, blue eyes hooded and distant. A rat nest of cables and sensors line the messy fringe of his hair, like flat leeches. From beneath drenched locks, rivulets of cloudy water scurry away towards a nearby grate, touched with wisps of scarlet.

Tony tries to think straight; he cannot. When something finally clicks in him, he moves on some fractured autopilot, skirting around the remains of the neural helmet and settling down at Thor’s side. Gently, as if it was spun from strands of glass, he cradles the blond head in cupped hands and holds an ear to the bloodstained lips. He finds only slight relief in the shallow breath that meets him or the sickly warmth that impregnates the god of thunder’s skin, despite the chilly atmosphere of the chamber. He does not react when Tony calls his name. When Tony lightly shakes his unharmed shoulder, his lifeless body is a ragdoll under his hand.

He turns towards the scientist, heart in his throat, to ask the only question he can. “How is he doing?”

Bruce’s mouth tightens with grim honesty. “Not good, he’s burning up. I’ve done everything I can but the barrier kept me at bay after the door closed. I only broke through ten minutes ago when it started to weaken. I haven’t even had time to assess how bad the hemorrhage was.”

Not that we can do anything about it, Tony thinks as his stomach turns on itself. Open brain surgery was their last, much-dreaded option. One that would be tricky even in their perfectly controlled, sterile environment, before it blew to pieces. Resorting to it now would be on par with murder.

He watches Thor’s eyes flutter and roll back into his head. They keep moving fitfully under blue-tinged eyelids, as if lost in an uneasy dream. “Has he said anything?”

Bruce shakes his head. “He’s been in and out of consciousness since the energy field died. I think he’s too weak to even be delirious.” He drops a pair of padded sensors into Tony’s lap. “Put those on his chest, left and right.”

Tony nods, only now realizing the scientist is reconstructing the fragile network that keeps the health monitor operational. He palms the small, pliable pieces and slides a hand under the drenched fabric of Thor’s shirt, pressing them tight to the burning heat of his skin. Behind him, a cracked screen flickers to life, colored lines tracing out a quickening heart rate and worryingly low vitals. Before he can catch anything else, it buzzes, flickers again and dies, only to startle itself into an erratic awareness every couple of seconds.

Bruce swears loudly as he looks around, searching for something. His hands dip into a shattered crate Tony had nearly tripped over and come away stained with sticky, gray goo. He swears again and in the cold grasp of dread, Tony recognizes what was once their portable cooling unit. All their acetaminophen is gone, flasks burst like balloons, their contents long leaked down the grates. Their ice packs are an unformed gelatinous mess, melted into one another when the energy field cooked them from the inside out. The very few surviving ones are already tucked under Thor’s neck and armpits, a last ditch attempt to save faltering vital organs. The current state of the med-deck makes it incredibly hard to tell if they are succeeding.

There is a loud screeching sound to his right, followed by a crash. A large piece of debris is pushed aside and Steve moves briskly towards them. He freezes after a few steps as all color drains from his face. “Is he…?”

Bruce looks up at him. For a split second, Tony sees a recriminating shadow cross his eyes. “Alive, for now. The worst of the seizure has passed but his brain is still a firework and his fever keeps climbing.” His tone grows urgent as he rises back to his feet. “He needs to get to a hospital now. I don’t know how long I can keep him stable with what I got.”

Steve returns a curt, understanding nod. “The Compound’s medical wing is still operational,” he says. “Quinjet’s in the hangar. I can get it ready for takeoff in ten minutes.”

“You got five. Let me know over the comm and we’ll rendezvous there.” As Steve dips out of sight behind a power accumulator Bruce beckons Natasha over. “How are you with stitches?”

She pushes her way towards them. Compassion mixes with stifled horror as she catches a closer look of the broken body on the floor. She hesitates only briefly. “I can handle myself.”

With fast, decisive movements, she walks towards the overturned auxiliary tray before Bruce can direct her there. He gives her a thankful glance and gathers Thor in his arms to carefully deposit him on the gurney. The white sheets, soaked in water and fire-suppression foam bloom bright red where his head comes to rest. Above it, the monitor flickers again.

Bruce regards it with a mournful look. “Good,” he says, ”this is the same thing but in reverse.” He hands Natasha a pair of tweezers and gestures towards the mess of sensors clustered over Thor’s forehead. “Help me remove these while I work on his leg. They’re an infection risk he can’t afford.”

She musters a silent agreement, long, nimble fingers parting blond strands caked in blood. Tony watches on in a helpless stupor as he comes to understand that the hair-thin metal frames must have been distorted by the energy field, digging themselves into the skin, like a crown of metal thorns. Every sensor removed leaves a ghastly imprint streaked with livid crimson as, at the foot of the gurney, Bruce does his best to wrap the bandages that survived the melted ice packs around Thor’s wounded calf. He opens his mouth to ask how he can help, but his brain catches up with him and buries the question. He has dedicated his life to machines and lines of code. Where living flesh is concerned, he is as useful as a plasma torch.

He hovers beside Natasha, on the other side of the gurney as she gets to the BARF sensor resting on the bridge between Thor’s ear and temple. “That one stays,” he says. “Trust me, he wouldn’t want us to touch it.”

He meets her questioning gaze with as much reassurance as he can gather. A shade of doubt settles in her eyes but does not linger. She complies and moves to the next sensor, smoothing out a patch of skin where matted hair mingles with dull, brown scabs. As she teases out the last curl of twisted wire at the tip of the tweezers her steady grip slips and fresh blood flows down Thor’s temple. For the first time in a long while, he stirs and his eyelids crack open, driven by some hidden, pained reflex. He lets out a soft moan, clumsily attempting to escape from her touch. 

She whispers a curse and presses a scrap of gauze to his forehead. It grows slick and heavy under her fingers and as her face pinches in commiseration. “Sorry,” she mutters. “I’m sorry, try to keep still for me. I’m almost done.”

She soothes the torn skin around the wound as she picks up the tweezers to finish the job. If Thor can hear her, it does not reflect at all upon his listless features. His pupils are impossibly wide again, staring into space, unmoving, unblinking. A glint of awareness only touches them after Natasha pulls out the last resisting piece of metal and Tony lays a tentative hand on his head.

“Hang in there, sunshine.” The words scrape his tight throat like sandpaper. “Help is coming. We just need you to hold on a little longer.” He pulls aside strands of hair trapped in the bloody mess his forehead has become and wonders what on God’s green Earth is taking Steve so long. “Stay with me, I’m right here. Thor?”

The name is a prayer in Tony’s mouth. It is answered as the blue eyes move sluggishly towards his voice. His chest rises and falls sharply as if he is struggling to speak. The single word that leaves it can only be guessed on the faint movement of his lips. 

“Stark…”

* * *

“Stark?”

Tony’s head snaps up as he turns away from a holographic screen. He looks startled, as if waking from a nap and Thor wonders if he has slept at all since they landed in New York two days ago. The subtle dark shade starting to gather over his cheekbones is a strong hint to the contrary, so is the disheveled hair or the crumpled clothes that bear an interesting collection of stains. There is an unhealthy sheen in his eyes, a telltale sign of a man running on fumes who has been watching the simulation before him too long. The endless log of tweaks and adjustments displayed on a side menu only confirms Thor’s suspicions. FRIDAY’s digital brain has been chugging on for way longer than a human can hope to match. He does not think Tony understands how much he has been testing his own limits.

He has tried to tell him to take a break more than once. He was dismissed each and every time. So instead he asks, “What do you think?”

Tony sighs, pushing himself away from the desk. The wheels on the swivel chair run over a paper straw which he picks up and fiddles with before chucking it in a bin. “I think the devil’s in the details. And the details are a bit too much to process. That’s why my best girl’s helping out.”

He nods towards the flat silver disk sitting on the desk and the immaterial screen above. Thor shakes his head, having thoroughly given up on understanding the number permutations upon it or the constant flow of graphs. “I meant your personal opinion. Do you think we have a chance?”

Tony gnaws on his lower lip. “That’s the problem, Point Break. We need more than just one.” He stands up, rubbing his creased forehead as his eyes drift towards the Pym Particles lined up in an enclosed container beside the desk. “I guarantee those things will mess with the Planck Scale. That’s already bad news, before we even begin to consider the Deutsch Proposition.”

Thor does not reply, watching the sun dip into a scarlet sea through the window. The scientific terms mean absolutely nothing to him but he does not need them to. The exhaustion in Tony’s voice hides something deeper, a shadow that has never left his face ever since the simulation started running. It is a shadow that has gradually migrated to the rest of the team as the hours dragged on. Perhaps that is why they have begun to spend more and more time in the Intelligence Room, watching the plane of space and time curve and flow under the drift of equations. Bruce is the only one of them who understands what’s going on and every time he starts to explain, the simulation has already changed course into something even more complex.

Steve voices Thor’s thoughts before he has a chance to. “You’re scared.”

Tony leans against the wall to give his back a much needed rest. “Damn right, I am. You would be too if you understood in how many ways this whole thing can go wrong. Best case scenario, we get permanently stuck in the past. Worst case scenario, quantum fluctuation rips us apart before we even arrive there. Either way, we aren’t coming back.”

Steve gives him the quiet nod of a man already expecting bad news. He rests his elbows on a wide, metal table, as beside him, Scott’s eyes narrow. “I came back in one piece. Have we forgotten that?”

Tony cracks his neck as his face twitches in discomfort. “That was a cosmic fluke, Lang, one in a million. It isn’t worth much unless we can repeat it in a controlled environment.”

“How do you know you won’t?” Scott throws a meaningful glance in Thor’s direction. “He said I would have the answer to this mess and I gave you one. Isn’t this like, destiny or something?”

A brief but earnest smile touches Tony’s mouth. “I’m sure destiny doesn’t mind me running some additional tests. Especially when your initial plan was based on Back to the Future.”

Embarrassment crawls over Scott’s face but he does not let it deter him. “That was just a figure of speech,” he protests. “The Stones are in the past, right? So all we have to do is go back, borrow them, unblip the universe, then return them before anyone realizes they’re gone. Sounds feasible, right?”

He turns to Bruce, practically begging for backup and is relieved to see the scientist’s nod of approval. “It is, but we’d have to be careful where we drop in. Or how we go about borrowing the stones.” He taps a pencil on a tattered notebook where events are messily jotted down and connected in an intricate pattern. “We won’t have a second chance once we cross the quantum tunnel. And we can’t count on backup.”

Natasha raises her head, brown eyes narrowed in thought. “Can’t we? You said it’s impossible to change our own timeline. What’s stopping us from finding our past selves and asking for their help?”

“Say that someone who looks exactly like you shows up ten years ago and asks to borrow the Tesseract. Would you give it to them?”

She pauses for a moment, then lets out a subtle laugh. “I’d call it fifty-fifty. Not the best odds, I know.”

“My point exactly. Not to mention, some of those stones aren’t going to be an easy task.” Bruce shakes his head and turns over a new page. “Where do we even begin with the Aether?”

The room falls silent, save for the subtle buzzing of the projection disk. Thor is acutely aware that all eyes are on him and feels a pang of dejection as he realizes he has no clear answer to give them. Their best bet to secure the Reality Stone has always been to take it from Tivan’s collection but the source of all magic was, by its very nature, fluid and unpredictable. Not one of the wisest sorcerers in Asgard had managed to bend it to their will entirely and most of those had since fallen to Hela or Thanos. The few magically inclined survivors in Norway had only just begun to learn their craft. If they were to tackle that riddle, their only hope lay with the Dark Elves who still did not look kindly upon Asgardians.

“I…” he begins and trails off. Something tugs at him from the far reaches of his mind, an unformed but insistent thought that demands his full attention nonetheless. For some unfathomable reason, it leaves a cold, urgent imprint upon his skin.

No, he thinks in a blurred haze. Not a thought, a memory. A memory of something he cannot place. Something that could not possibly have happened.

A headache starts to throb at the back of his head, dull and heavy. He winces and turns away from the team, ashamed of his own sudden lack of focus. Perhaps the Neuroweaver has done more damage than he wants to admit. Tony warned him that neuroplasticity would not shield him forever but this is the worst possible moment to start unraveling. Whatever is going on in his wounded mind, he prays it will not deal a heavy blow before they can reverse the effects of the Blip. 

Bruce is still looking at him closely, green eyes tinged with concern. To Thor’s dismay, the rest of the team is starting to follow suit. He opens his mouth to reassure them, but Tony beats him to the punch, as if sensing his distress. 

“Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” he says. “We can discuss space magic once we figure out the science. This last simulation is a long shot but it’s our best one. If that doesn’t work, we can forget all about…”

He pauses as behind him, FRIDAY’s wan glow burns brighter. The projector disk grows quiet, indicating the grueling process has come to an end. Thor cannot read much into the results or into Tony’s deceptively still expression when he turns around to evaluate her findings. All he really understands is that the number sitting on top of a row of three-dimensional graphs reads ninety-eight percent.

“Holy shit.” Tony’s voice barely breaks the stunned, expectant silence like he is afraid of shattering the fragile reality before him. “Holy shit, it worked. It actually worked.”

At the reconnaissance table, Steve’s stiff shoulders finally relax as he allows himself a hesitant smile. Scott, whose optimism could probably fuel them for months grins widely. “So it’s final? We have a Time Heist?”

Tony regards him with an incredulous look. “Yeah…” he breathes. “Yeah, we do. I’d need some time to work around the ERP Paradox but this here is our ticket.” He runs a hand through messy hair and seeks Thor’s eyes as the initial shock recedes into genuine hope. “Guess this really was destiny.”

Thor finds it surprisingly hard to return the gesture. He had been waiting to hear good news for days and yet, he cannot shake the nagging feeling that they are all missing a crucial piece of a puzzle he does not fully grasp. He peers at the dizzying equations, hoping in vain to find an answer but cannot keep his concentration for long. Thoughts start and stop, stumbling into one another, devolving into meaningless dread as his initial confusion quickly progresses to irritation. He can’t afford to do this right now. The universe depends on them to stand strong together. He needs to keep a clear head.

He pushes back the ghost of the throbbing pain across his temples and turns to face the rest of the team. “Then we’ve got a lot of calls to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a lot of amazing comments last time and I was floored by each and every one. As I said before, I would not have made it this far into this fic if it weren't for you guys. So if you like this fic please leave a comment. I appreciate the hell out of all of you, new and old readers alike.


End file.
